


Delicate

by StarMaamMke



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Jim is super rich, Joyce is a nanny, NSFW, Nanny AU, Sarah is alive, Sexy Times, TW implied domestic abuse between exes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-05 06:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10299542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarMaamMke/pseuds/StarMaamMke
Summary: Expanded version of "Miss Joyce Regrets" (http://archiveofourown.org/works/9465737)Joyce Byers is looking for a life change, and Jim Hopper is looking for a nanny. Alternate Universe.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the story comes from a song by Damien Rice (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VnL3NfhOsBM ) that I happened to listen to a lot while writing this piece. 
> 
> Want to read more fics, but aren't married to this ship? Follow my Stranger Things Fic blog @StrangerThingsFics on Tumblr or my main blog @StarMaamMke 
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated! This fic is completed, I'm just breaking it up into installments so my beta doesn't feel pressured to comb through over 20k words all at once.

**New York City**

 

**1983**

 

He did not look like any sort of CEO Joyce Byers had ever seen or imagined.  He was tall and imposing, yes, but his messy beard was more suited for the  rustic backwoods than the  boardroom. His sandy-blond hair appeared to be thinning and graying on top of his high forehead, a fact that he did not conceal with a comb-over, and he clearly was not a fitness fanatic like Joyce assumed every rich-boy must be. There was evidence of a gut sagging ever-so-slightly in his ill-fitting suit. All in all, he seemed positively uncomfortable in his own skin, and his low, uncertain timbre hinted at a lack of social grace.

 

But that was beside the point. He had called her for an interview, and she wasn’t about to throw away her first big lead over such a trifle as outward appearances. She needed this job for her sanity.

 

Her son had started school at NYU, and their little apartment suddenly seemed huge and lonely. Up until he departed for his first semester, she had worked as a cashier at Woolworths and picked up a little extra money babysitting for the families in her apartment complex. She wasn’t a social person, as a general rule, but the absence of Jonathan made her long for a little bit of conversation and excitement. He was living in the dorms, and even though they resided in the same city, his visits home became few and far between.

 

Shortly after coming to the realization that she was lonely, Joyce decided to take a chance and apply for jobs that were outside of her comfort zone: operator, receptionist at the Plaza, personal assistant, personal shopper, and now she was sitting down with James Hopper, CEO of Hawkins Inc. His wife, semi-famous soap opera star Diane Tuesday, had died of cancer over a year ago, and his daughter was currently without a nanny.

 

Joyce’s resume was spotty at best. She had attended a few semesters at Queens College in her youth with plans to have a career in Early Childhood education. After she met Lonnie Byers and was subsequently knocked up by him, her plans changed. Her family was staunchly Catholic, so the baby was kept and a husband was obtained through promises of promotion in Joyce’s father’s construction company. Joyce stayed at home until her husband’s firing and subsequent desertion made a career a must. Her family offered to take her in, but she refused to take a dime from any of them. They had forced her hand, knowing full-well that Lonnie was a schmuck and not at all husband material. She was not interested in their best intentions. When she had started putting her resumes out into the universe, she knew full well that a change in scene was unlikely for someone with her background, but she never wanted to say she did not try.

 

“I grew up in Queens too,” James remarked, without looking up from her resume. Joyce smiled at that. She was sitting in a soft leather armchair facing his desk. The interview was being conducted in his Manhattan office, and she found herself admiring his sweeping view of the city. She definitely was not admiring his blue eyes, or his long, elegant fingers as they held the abridged history of her. Her own small hands were twisting nervously in her lap.

 

“That’s funny. I can’t hear a trace of it in your voice.” She bit her bottom lip and frowned. She hoped it wasn’t the wrong thing to say.

 

James over at her with a sad smile. “It’s a long story; but I moved away when I was still young. The private schools upstate tend to beat that outta kids. I can’t really hear it in yours either.”

 

“I had to get a job to support my son. Nice department stores tend to want women who sound like they can afford to go to The Russian Tea Room after their shifts.”

 

“There’s a trace of Katherine Hepburn in it.”

 

Joyce blushed. He was being ridiculous, of course, but she was flattered. Katherine Hepburn was her favorite actress. “I didn’t think I was coming off as posh as that.”

 

“Not so much the poshness as...I can’t put my finger on it. Anyway, I think I’d like to hire you.”

 

Joyce could not help but grin widely at the news. She took a deep breath and cocked her head to one side. “Really? I mean I don’t have the experience and I’m not as young as most nannies—”

 

“What does your age have to do with anything?” James frowned. “Are you trying to talk me out of this or something?”

 

She shook her head frantically. “No, not at all! I just— I guess I’m just s-surprised.”

 

“You wouldn’t mind uprooting your life and moving all the way out to Scarsdale? I mean, it’s not a shack in the hills, but it isn’t the city proper.”

 

“Are _you_ trying to talk _me_ out of it?” Joyce shot back in a gently teasing tone, giving him a half-smile.

 

“It’s quiet out there, is what I’m saying.”

 

“I like quiet. I’ve had a loud life.”

 

“Well, you are from Queens.”

 

They both shared a chuckle at his dig before Joyce stood to shake his hand. It was massive against her own — his palm rougher than she would have expected from someone who had such an easy existence.

 

“Something wrong?” he asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

 

She dropped her proffered hand to one side, burning with embarrassment for having been caught ‘checking out,’ as Lonnie would call her silent musings. She shook her head and sat. “No. Sorry about that, it’s been a long day, and I really wasn’t expecting a job at the end of it. I have a cat.”

 

“Pardon?” His brow was furrowed, but he was smiling and his eyes were sparkling with confused amusement.

 

“A cat. At my apartment. His name is William, but that’s not important. I just wouldn’t... I don’t think I could leave him.”

 

James shrugged. “Then don’t? You’d actually be living in the apartment above the garage. You’d have your own space to play around with and a decorating stipend. Honestly, you can have a menagerie so long as you’re good to my little girl.”

 

Joyce nodded at a pewter-framed photograph on James’s desk. It featured a little girl of about eight — blonde, beautiful, and grinning with unbridled sincerity as she posed on a tire swing.

 

“I don’t think that will be terribly difficult. She seems sweet.”

 

James picked up the photo and smiled fondly at it before setting it back down. “She’s sweet, but she’ll keep you on your toes. Her school has her in advanced courses in nearly all subjects, and she will readily let you know that she’s smarter than you.”

 

“Well, she’d most likely be right about that when it comes to me.” Joyce looked down at her clasped hands with a wistful smile. Her lack of education would always be a source of regret — at least Jonathan was excelling at NYU. She looked up to see him staring at her with a gently furrowed brow, concern evident in his remarkable eyes.

 

“I’ve known some over-educated, first class idiots. I doubt any of them would stand a chance against you.” His voice was soft and sincere.

 

Joyce exhaled shakily. Her cheeks felt as though they were on fire. Her employer was charming. The warning bells went off in her head. Soap operas and novels had warned her about this sort of thing. But those things were fiction, and she was Joyce Byers: plain, eccentric, and on the wrong side of her thirties. All would be well.

 

“Thank you. And thank you so much for this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”

 

James stood and walked around his desk so that he was standing in front of her. Joyce shot to her feet, mildly mortified that she had been eye level with his crotch for even an instant. He took her right hand and pressed a business card into her palm. “This is my private number. Please use it after you’ve made arrangements with your landlord, and I will have movers come by to collect your things. Say, in a week?”

 

Joyce nodded, her hand tingled for a moment after he released it. “Thank you,” she repeated, before going on her way.

 

She found herself smiling as she rode the subway home. The muscles in her cheeks hurt by the time she reached her apartment and curled up on the couch with William purring in her lap.  Things were going to be different.

 

“Ready to kick it with the swells, Will?”

 

“Mrow.”

 

“You don’t care.”

* * *

 

 

The apartment above the garage ended up being bigger and nicer than the one Joyce had shared with her son in Queens. Somehow, she expected a drab little studio with small windows and a bunsen burner. What she received was a spacious palace with large windows, polished hardwood floors, and a beautiful little kitchen, complete with pantry. James —  Jim as he insisted on being called (“Hop, if I do something to annoy you”) —  assured her that the kitchen was purely decoration and that she was more than welcome to have meals inside the house.

 

“Unless there is a party, of course,” Joyce assumed as Jim led her into what was to be her bedroom. She nearly gasped at how sweet and comfortable her room appeared; it was decorated in soft blues and ivories, complete with a four-poster queen-sized bed. She sat on the edge of the bed and gave a sigh when she felt how soft the mattress was.

 

Jim crossed the room, placed a large hand on one ornately-carved, cherrywood post and gave her a confused look. “No, you’re always welcome —  I don’t really give parties. That was Diane’s thing.” His voice strained a bit at the mention of his dead wife, and Joyce felt a twisting sadness in her gut. It really had not been so long ago that the woman had died, and of course he’d still be grieving and not throwing Gatsby-esque shindigs.

 

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

 

“Believe me, Flo has been dying for another mouth to feed. You’d be insulting her if you didn’t join us.” Flo was his cook/housekeeper. Joyce’s cheeks were still sore from where the short, stout woman had pinched them during introductions. She had not been fussed over that much since before her grandmother died.

 

“I wouldn’t want to disappoint Flo.”

 

Jim chuckled and held out his hand. “We have some beautiful gardens, if you’d like to take a look.”

 

Joyce smiled, assured him that she did, and took his hand; it was warm, and his long, strong fingers curled over her wrist as he helped her to her feet. She tried to ignore the faint heat in her cheeks when he released her. It was nothing — she simply had avoided being in closed quarters with a man for so long that her body was behaving naturally. He was a tall glass of water in front of a person who had been wandering the desert for years. It would be easy to ignore this initial and instantaneous attraction because he was her employer. Off limits. Strictly verboten.

 

The school bus arrived as the two of them were strolling the grounds. Bounding through the doors of the bus and hurtling across the lawn towards Jim was a petite flash of flaxen and plaid. Sarah Hopper threw herself against her father’s side, and the large man pretended that the impact was strong enough to stagger him. Joyce laughed as he grabbed her hand, pretending that she was a steadying force.

 

“Sorry, Miss Joyce. This rude munchkin almost knocked me down,” Jim apologized, scooping the child into his arms and over one shoulder. The little girl kicked and screamed in delight before he set her back on her feet. She fussily smoothed out her skirt before giving Joyce a gap-toothed grin. Her large, inquisitive eyes were the same clear shade of blue as her father’s.

 

“Hi, Miss Joyce,” Sarah chirped through giggles.

 

“Hello.” Joyce squatted  low so she was eye-level with the girl. She held out her hand to Sarah. “It’s nice to meet you.”

 

Sarah threw her arms around Joyce’s neck and gave her a tight hug that showed deceptive strength, in spite of her tiny frame. Joyce felt her heart warm to the girl, but also experienced a slight pang. Jonathan was her only child, and he was a grown man. She had forgotten how it felt to be embraced by someone so small.

 

“Careful, Miss Joyce, she’s a charming one,” Jim warned. Joyce, still holding Sarah, looked up to see that he was smiling fondly at the two of them, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

 

“Seems to be a family trait,” she blurted out without thinking. _Oh lord, please don’t take that as me flirting with you!_

 

His eyes widened a bit and one corner of his mouth twitched before he sucked in his lips. He gave a good-natured chuckle and grinned in a way that momentarily devastated her. “You aren’t wrong.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jim didn’t know what to make of the new situation. Certainly, Joyce had a stronger rapport with his child than the last two nannies had — the first one, he had caught literally making Sarah cry over spilt milk. The woman’s tirade had been less about Sarah’s math book being soaked and more about getting a few drops on her silk old lady slacks. The second was fonder of Sarah and less prone to harsh outbursts, but he had caught her trying on his dead wife’s clothing. At night. In the room he was sleeping in.

 

Joyce was a godsend. Sarah was already in love with her after two weeks, and Flo liked her. Flo did not really care for anyone -—  especially the women Jim sometimes brought home from the Gala events he couldn’t escape. _Get a hotel and leave them in the city if they’re going to be different every other week._ He really needed to establish boundaries with that woman.  Sometimes (most times) the things she told him were completely out of line. It wasn’t like he ever let Sarah meet any of these mystery women. But yes, Flo absolutely worshipped Joyce.

 

The longer he spent with her, the more he realized that the same was true for him. Some of the feelings were natural, he rationalized. Neither of them had been born in this strange world of luxury they were both now inhabiting, although he supposed Joyce was merely an observer. He was completely immersed, and he had not ever felt comfortable with that fact. Not that he envied Joyce’s previously hardscrabble existence; it just seemed more familiar to him. They had a neighborhood in common, and that was sweet and rare.

 

She was sweet and rare. Prickly to a fault at times (he found that out after teasing her too hard at the breakfast table), and awkward as all get out, but sweet. And funny. And beautiful. The beautiful part was making him uneasy. Not the fact that she was beautiful —  there wasn’t anything she could do about it —  but the fact that he was noticing it more and more. He knew of men in his circle who wouldn't think twice at pressing their luck (and other things) against a chance at a fetching nanny. He had heard the stories. Archie Callahan, his golf buddy, had called him a prude for glaring during one such story.

 

_Was she a good employee?_ Jim had asked.

 

_Who cares?_

 

_I suppose your wife cares, now she has to bust her ass interviewing new staff._

 

It was inconvenient, to say the least. Jim didn’t have a wife to embarass with these shameful feelings, but he did have a kid who would be heartbroken if he went against his better judgment and  all went to hell. Besides, it seemed extremely unlikely that Joyce would reciprocate those feelings. She was a grown, level-headed woman. Making eyes at an employer was something for silly girls with romantic notions. Joyce was practical. And sweet, and rare, and prickly, and funny, and beautiful. So beautiful.

 

He had to think of something other than her expressive, whisky-colored eyes and her soft, gentle mouth. He had to erase her shy, sweet smile from his brain. Learn music other than her hesitant-but-rich laughter.

 

Marissa Kerbough had made eyes at him at the last investors meeting. She was pretty, intelligent, and far too busy to engage in anything serious. Maybe it was time to think about her —  her generous mouth he hadn’t yet seen smile and her large eyes that were...green, maybe?

 

Yes. If there was someone to think of, let it be someone who didn't live and work under his roof. She was a season ticket holder for the Flyers _and_ the Giants. It was win-win.

 

           

* * *

 

 

“I thought you had gone crazy when you told me,” Jonathan Byers grumbled as he and his mother went through cardboard boxes in the Hopper attic. Jim had been generous enough to offer the space for Joyce’s belongings that hadn’t quite fit in her garage apartment. Most of those things had been leftovers from Jonathan’s big campus move —  Joyce did not come with a lot of baggage. Not material, anyway.

 

“Is that why it took you so long to come out and see me?” Joyce inquired, wiping the dust off of an old children’s record with her hand. She rubbed the hand against her denim-clad thigh and waved the record in Jonathan’s face. He shook his shaggy head and shrugged.

 

“It’s Scarsdale, Mom. I assumed they’d turn me away at the checkpoint for driving a 20 year-old car without collector’s plates.”

Joyce dropped the record into a large box labeled “Donate” and chuckled before she sneezed violently.

 

“You could have just thrown all of this out. I didn’t take it to college because I didn’t need it anymore —  why did you take the job anyway?”

 

Joyce exhaled and sniffled. “I just needed a change. Any change.”

“You could have gone back to school.”

 

She rolled her eyes and shook her head as though it were the most absurd thing he had ever said. “I don’t care what you say about...what did you call it? Non-trads?” Jonathan nodded. “Yeah, I don’t care what you say, I’d feel old, awkward and stupid.”

 

“You aren’t stupid!”

 

“That’s beside the point. I don’t think I can even do a kegstand anymore.”

 

They both shared a laugh at the thought. Joyce leaned against her son and rested her head against his shoulder. She had missed him, and she absolutely hated the fact that he was a self-sufficient adult without a need for Hap Palmer records and books by Leo Lionni.

 

“Do they treat you okay here?” There was a protective edge to his voice, a tone he had developed way back when he was a boy first becoming aware of the fact that his father wasn’t a terribly nice man.

 

“Yes, of course. I wouldn’t be here if they weren’t.”

 

The trap door to the attic opened and the ladder clattered to the ground, causing both mother and son to give a start that raised the dust on the battered couch they were sitting on.

 

“It’s just me.” Jim’s sandy blond head popped up into their line of sight. “Flo wanted to let the kid know that he’s welcome to stay for dinner.”

 

“Thanks, but I have to get back to the library. Big test tomorrow.” Jonathan’s voice was a barely audible mumble, his eyes fixed on his hands, which were clasped in his lap. Joyce sighed.

 

“But this was barely a visit.” She hoped her voice didn’t sound too desperate and whiny. She knew the opulence of her new life made Jonathan uncomfortable. He had always been vocal about his disdain for the ‘richies’ at the private school Joyce had worked herself ragged to send him to. She also knew that he wasn’t one to warm up to strangers, particularly men.

 

“Sorry, Mom. Maybe next time. Thanks anyway, Mr. Hopper.”

 

“Call me Jim.”

 

Jonathan scoffed softly enough that Joyce was sure Jim had not heard. It still rankled her.

 

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. See you in a bit, Joy-...Miss Joyce.”

 

When the trapdoor was back in place, Jonathan looked over at his mother. His face was incredulous. “He hasn’t tried anything, has he?”

 

“Jonathan!”

 

“I don’t like the way he looked at you.”

 

Joyce, her face flushed and her thoughts swimming, sputtered and stammered a bit before shaking her head and asking her son to specify which way he thought her employer had looked  at her.

 

“I know you haven’t dated since Lonnie, but you aren’t stupid. Be careful.” He stood, slapped the dust off of his jeans and looked down at her. “I mean it.”

 

“You are not my dad!”

 

“Thank god for that. Grandpa sucks.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“Your words.” Jonathan picked up a box of items and headed to the door.

 

“And I don’t need you telling me to be careful. I’m a grown woman!”

 

“Fine. Help me get this stuff out to the car, please.”

 

“Fine.”

 

Jim was standing in the kitchen when Joyce and Jonathan entered, carrying a cardboard box each.

 

“That looks pretty heavy, Miss Joyce. Here, let me.” He was at her side, one large hand brushing against her upper arm as the other covered one of the hands that clutched the bottom of the cardboard box. Her cheeks burned, and her gaze fixed firmly on his chest as he stood in front of her, waiting for her to allow him to take the burden of books from her arms.

 

“Uhhh…” She lost the ability to form words.

 

“I think she’s got it.” The annoyed whine in Jonathan’s voice pulled Joyce’s focus away from the fact that the first two buttons of Jim’s flannel were open, away from the contemplation of what his chest looked like when bare. Her son was being rude.

 

“That’s easy for you to say, kid. You’re carrying a box of records. It looks like there are textbooks in here.” The weight in Joyce’s arms lifted as Jim pulled the box from her grasp.

 

“Th-thank you,” she stammered with a tremulous smile. She turned to her son with a glare. “Don’t be rude, Jonathan!” Her son blinked in surprise at the snappish edge in her tone. She rarely raised her voice with him, not even when was busted for marijuana in his junior year of high school.

 

“Sorry,” Jonathan mumbled under his breath, thoroughly chastised for the moment.

 

* * *

 

 

Joyce found it difficult to say no to Sarah Hopper –she was sweet and logical to a fault. The child was also smart as a whip; a diligent student that quickly and correctly finished her homework so she had extra play time. Her favorite game, and one Joyce dreaded being asked to play, was hide-and-seek.

The Hopper House was enormous, just a few square feet shy of what Joyce would expect to see on “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous”. Because of this, Sarah’s games usually went on for hours, and just on one turn. Sarah always found Joyce in a thrice – the child knew her own house, after all. Joyce, on the other hand…

“Sarah, it’s been an hour; you have to come out for supper.” Joyce called out, with a bit of uneasiness. Jim’s Town car had pulled into the driveway twenty minutes earlier, and Joyce had told her employer that Sarah was taking a nap in nursery. She did not know if he would approve of the fact that she had lost track of his only child for such a long period of time.

She felt like she would never understand the layout of this house. She would have to get a map from Flo and start putting her foot down about which wings Sarah was allowed to hide in. Having the whole house be fair game was just exhausting.

A giggle floated down the corridor of the family wing. Joyce was only sure of where Sarah’s room and nursery was located in that particular part of the house – she felt slightly irritated that the child had picked such an obvious hiding spot, especially when Joyce had been looking everywhere from pantry to the laundry chute. Rules were definitely going to be established after today.

“Sarah, I mean it!”

She heard something that sounded like a closet being opened from behind a large set of double-doors. Aha. Joyce knocked.

“Ready or not, here I come!” She flung the doors open with force.

Jim stood in the middle of what was clearly his bedroom suite, naked from the waist up, his hips wrapped in a towel that was just a shade too small for his impressive frame, and beads of water glistening on his chest, arms and shoulders. He dropped the pair of trousers he had been holding in his hands, and they hit the towel before landing on the floor, which was enough disturbance to take the towel with them.

“Oh no!” Joyce squeaked, pressing her hands against her mouth. She closed her eyes and could hear the towel being scooped up.

“Jesus!” Jim swore.

Joyce backed away quickly, eyes still closed, intent on fleeing the scene. Pain exploded up her spine to the back of her head when she tripped and slammed into the heavy doors. Her eyes flew open and she gasped from the pain. Jim rushed to her side, one hand clutching the towel around his waist, the other reaching out towards her, ready to assist.

“It’s okay, no thank you!” she cried, before turning and hurrying out of the room. A tiny body collided with her midsection as she stepped out.

“Miss Joyce!” Sarah giggled, rubbing her forehead. The doors behind Joyce slammed shut in an instant.

“W-well, there you are.”

“I heard you give up, so I came to find you. What were you doing in my daddy’s room?”

Joyce laughed nervously and took the child’s hand.

“Nothing. Just being silly is all.”

Joyce hoped that dinner wouldn’t be awkward. Scratch that; she hoped she could go on functioning from day-to-day, look him in the eyes and have normal conversations. She would have to be very, _very_ careful to only look at him from the shoulders up, forever. Never down. Hoo, boy. Never down -- and she definitely had to quash the juvenile voice in her head that kept marvelling over the fact that he hadn’t even been erect when she saw _it._

_Can you imagine what it must look like when he’s good to go?_

“Oh my god, stop.”

“What did I do?” Sarah’s hurt little voice cut through Joyce’s reverie. Joyce’s hands stilled from the task of brushing the child’s silken locks.

“Just a tricky tangle, Peanut.”

“Oh. I didn’t feel it. You’re much better at brushing my hair than Miss Lisa was.”

“It’s nice to know I’m good at something.”

Joyce and Sarah walked down to the dining room, hand-in-hand. Joyce’s heart was lodged firmly in her throat, and she hoped the perceptive child wouldn’t remark on the fact that her trembling hands were cold and clammy. She hoped she wouldn’t see him at the head of the table, and have her knees give out on her. She hoped the ‘Freudian Slip’ Jonathan had once explained to her was a myth, and that she wouldn’t ask him to pass the…

His seat was empty.

Flo emerged through the swing door that separated the kitchen-prep room from the dining area. She was carrying a serving dish of bacon macaroni and cheese. The cold anxiety that clung to Joyce on her way to the dining room, gave way to the hot flush of disappointment. She had mentally prepared herself for seeing him across the table, rehearsed ways to have a normal conversation, and he was gone. Flo always made comfort food for Sarah on nights her father was away.

“Unfortunately, your daddy had to meet someone in the city tonight,” Flo cooed as she scooped the pasta onto Sarah’s plate. The little girl gave a tiny whine of disappointment. Joyce patted her on the shoulder, and tried to stop herself from analyzing Flo’s explanation. Usually, Flo would end a sentence like that with ‘for business’. Jim always had to meet someone in the city ‘for business’. The fact that she had left it at ‘tonight’ caused a hot knife of jealousy to twist at Joyce’s insides.

“On a date?” Sarah asked.

_Don’t make her answer that. Please, please…_

“You’re too smart for your own good. Yes, I suppose for a date.”

Joyce felt a muscle in her cheek twitch, and she remembered that breathing was an instrumental part of not dying, so she did. She would not imagine what kind of woman Jim Hopper dated. The mental brushstrokes wouldn’t create a tall, razor-thin woman with expertly coiffed hair (Brunette? Blonde? His wife had been a blonde so maybe…), large doe-like eyes, a grace that allowed for floating about in four-inch heels, and a confidence that allowed a fashion sense that could only be described as ‘brief chic’.

“I bet she’s not prettier than, Miss Joyce,” Sarah mumbled through a mouthful of macaroni.

“Don’t talk with your mouthful, and don’t say silly things,” Joyce scolded gently.

“Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da,” Sarah replied cheekily before dissolving into giggles as Joyce poked a finger against her side.

* * *

 

Jim had been fairly certain that he had asked his driver to take him to a hotel in the city, and not drive and drive and drive until the streetlights and the neon disappeared and gave way to country roads.

Certain but inattentive. He had a lapful of Marissa, and she was squirming, and sighing, and moaning, and sucking his tongue into her wide, hot mouth, and holy-moley was he ever drunk. He was more worried about whiskey-dick than geography, though from the sure way she squeezed and stroked his cock through his trousers, he was pretty certain that was a non-issue.

When the car came to a stop and his drive gave a discreet tap on the side of the door, Jim’s fingers had been working diligently at the task of bringing his fetching date to a loud and messy completion, his mouth latched onto one erect nipple. He withdrew, and nipped gently at the sound.

“Mmm… finish in here,” Marissa whined against his ear, before sucking on the lobe. Logic filtered in through his horny, inebriated brain, and he shook his head.

“This is a rental.”

So they emerged from the limo. Jim frowned at the scenery.

“Huh.”

“Your place on a first date?”

“I guess.” Something nagged at him, screamed that this was 110% not okay, but he had the worst case of blue balls, and Marissa’s mouth was soft and clever and she had promised -  _promised! -_  to put it to the task of sucking him dry. He placed his hand on her ass and squeezed before they stumbled towards the house.

They made it upstairs after a pattern of one-step, two-step, pause to make out against a wall, or railing. They were not being quiet or discreet or any of the things Jim had promised Flo when they discussed his romantic life. He was pulling Marissa towards the family wing, another no-no in Flo’s book, and he would have respected that, no questions asked, except the layout of his own home was a bit confusing, and his bed and its location was the only thing his mind could conjure up with any sort of clarity.

He pressed Marissa against the wall near the double doors to his bedroom, and ghosted his lips against the side of her neck, making her giggle as his hot breath puffed against her ear.

A door from across the hall opened softly, and Marissa gasped, her eyes wide with horror. Jim leapt away from the woman and turned violently to see what was causing her distress.

“I’m sorry. She was having trouble sleeping, so I stayed in the rocking chair and…”

_Goddamn it. Goddamn it. Fuckfuckfuckfuck._

“Joyce.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atonement

Jim felt sobriety come rushing up through his brain like a hammerstrike. The hallway was dark, but even in the obscuring gloom, even through his booze-fogged eyes, he could see that she was hurt. Her little face, ordinarily porcelain with roses in the cheeks, was chalk. Her haunting, dark eyes were glued to the floor, and he detected the slightest touch of a tremble in her narrow shoulders.

“Who is—”

“Joyce,” Jim repeated, cutting Marissa off.

Joyce looked up, her eyes soft and her mouth smiling. 

“His daughter’s nanny. I apologize. I’m usually well out of the way of the main house by now. Goodnight.”

He wanted to rush to her side, particularly when she tripped over her feet and stumbled with a faint gasp. Joyce did not fall to the ground, however. She straightened up without looking back and continued on her way. The shame was overwhelming. He shrugged Marissa’s hand off of his shoulder.

“Sorry. I’m not feeling so hot, Marissa. Let me show you to one of the guest rooms.”

Marissa sniffed. “I’ll just call a cab.”

“You’ll never get anyone this late.”

“You must not know me very well.” She kissed his cheek and smiled sympathetically. “She seems nice. Don't treat her like Callahan treats his babysitters.”

“I'm not fucking her, I promise.”

Marissa shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t care. I'm hot and rich, and you aren't as cute as you think. She seems amazing, and I'm guessing your girl is in love with her.” Jim shifted his weight, becoming even more uncomfortable with the chastisement he guessed he had coming. Marissa raised an eyebrow at his expression. “Get smart. It's not worth getting your dick wet if it's just going to be an ego trip for you.”

“So wise. Filthy, but wise.”

“Listen, we’re still friends. Not in a sexy way, obviously, but friends. You can always count on me for honesty. You’re a dog — spare me, I’ve heard the stories — you’re a dog, but I think you know what’s at risk if you go after her and think it’s just going to be convenient live-in screwing. Think about it.” She yawned, stretching her bare arms over her head. He noticed how her breasts lifted and moved against the slinky fabric of her black dress, and a dark part of him wished he hadn’t ended their little adventure. She was braless, and he was only human, after all. 

“There’s a telephone down the hall.” 

“That’s fine. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

__________________

 

Joyce threw the windows open in her living room, pulled up a stool, ripped open a pack of Camels, and began to smoke. The pack was her “Break in Case of Emergency” Supply, so the cigarette tasted musty, and the smoke seeped into her lungs, thick and sickening. Tears sprang into her eyes, as she coughed for a solid minute after the first inhale. Two years of progress down the drain  because she had a crush. Pathetic.  

 

The night air felt cool against her inflamed cheeks, the icy breeze putting out the little fires under her skin. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why was she so angry? It was his home. He was allowed to bring home whomever he pleased and without explaining himself to a servant.

 

“I’m not a servant,” she grumbled harshly to her cat. His little paws were outstretched and placed on the rung of the stool, contemplating a steep climb onto his owner’s lap. 

 

“Mrrrr.”

 

“I’m not!”

 

When Joyce was on her fourth cigarette in a row, light flooded the living room through the window. Joyce squinted and stared out, surprised to see a taxi pulling into the driveway. Several beats later, the woman Joyce had seen near Jim’s bedroom came tripping into view. The woman paused at near the cab and looked up. Joyce felt her pulse quicken, as her confusion grew. The woman gave her a sad smile and waved, before entering the car through the backseat.

 

Joyce felt a stab of irritation. She didn’t need anyone’s sympathy, especially not from a socialite fleeing into the night. She frowned. There couldn’t have been enough time for them…not that it mattered, anyway.

 

She put out her cigarette and went to bed.

 

___________

 

“You ought to have a party,” Marissa remarked before biting into her sandwich.

 

Jim frowned at her from across the bistro table. In the two weeks since the hallway incident, they had not entertained a reprisal; however, they had settled into a comfortable friendship. Jim didn’t have women friends before Marissa, and it was kind of nice. He was learning new perspectives. 

 

“I don’t do parties, my--”

 

“Yes, we all know about tragic Diane and her grand parties, and the time Marlena from ‘Days’ vomited in your pool, and how parties make you sad.”

 

“You’re kind of an asshole.”

 

She shrugged and sighed, wiping a bit of mustard from the corner of her mouth. “It’s a big, beautiful house. It should be filled with people. Isn’t your birthday coming up?”

 

Jim rolled his eyes. “Maybe. Did Powell tell you or something?”

 

“It’s in my address book for some reason. Anyway, you’re going to be 40.”

 

“Shhhh!”

 

Marissa waved a hand at him and shook her head. “Oh, honestly. I think I’d like to throw you a party. Will you let me, pleeeeease?”

 

“That’s annoying.”

 

“And it won’t stop until you say yes.”

 

“If I say yes, will you go crazy with it?”

 

“Probably. I’m very good at planning things.”

 

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled dramatically. “No masks.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“No costumes.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“I want it relatively family-friendly. My kid needs to be there.”

 

“Anyone else’s kids?”

 

“Fuck no. I just don’t want an orgy, don’t go hiring a clown and a pony.”

 

“But you just said you  _ didn’t _ want an orgy.”

 

Jim snorted. She was funnier than hell sometimes. Sometimes. Mostly she was annoying and tried to pull him out of his comfort zone. “Just keep it tasteful, but not stuffy.”

 

Marissa smirked. “Sure.”

 

__________

 

“A birthday party?” 

 

“Yeah. It’s not usually my thing but Mar-Ms. Kerbough from work wants to throw a spectacle.”

Joyce looked up from her paperback. She had been stretched out in the library’s heavily-cushioned picture window, allowing the early morning sun to heat and relax her body on her day off. The early summer was proving to be a hot and sticky one most days, but Joyce enjoyed the mornings where the sun wasn’t quite at its peak. She was also enjoying air conditioning for the first time ever. Even her  garage apartment had central air.  

 

“I guess your Ms. Kerbough knows best,” she replied with false cheer, bringing a hand under the strap of her tanktop so she could scratch an itch on her shoulder. 

 

She hadn’t heard much about his date since discovering them _ in flagrante delicto _ (Jonathan was really taking some weird classes, and she had to ask him where exactly her money was going. Latin was dead and buried last she heard) but then again, that made sense. He was her employer and the details of his romantic life were none of her business. Still, it was odd for her not at least to hear about the woman in passing or see her around the house, if in fact they were dating. He hadn’t been away on any sleepovers either. Business or otherwise. Not that she would have noticed because it was none of her business.

 

“She’s not my— she just thinks the house is empty and wants me to start socializing again.”

 

“I hear you socialize plenty.”  _ A bridge too far, Joyce. He signs your paychecks.  _ She looked away from him, fixing her gaze on the gardens in the backyard.

 

“I never said sorry about the night you saw us.”

 

“Because you don’t have to. It’s none of my business.”

 

“But this house is the place you work. I don’t want you to think that that’s a regular occurrence, despite what Flo has probably told you.”

 

“We don’t gossip. This isn’t  _ Upstairs, Downstairs _ .” She was lying, of course, but  _ that  _ wasn’t any of  _ his _ business. 

 

“I’m sorry all the same. Anyway, I’d like for Sarah to be at the party, at least until her bedtime, which you can push back by an hour that night, if she behaves.”

 

“That’s fine.”

 

“That means I want you to come.”

 

Joyce sat up and raised an eyebrow. “Okay, but I don’t really have party clothes. I suppose I’ll just be part of the wallpaper though, so it doesn’t matter.” She tugged down on the hem of her shorts, a move that captured his attention, drawing his eyes to her exposed legs for a millisecond before they snapped back to her face.

 

“What do you mean, part of the wallpaper?” He sounded irritated.

 

Joyce sat up and rolled her shoulders and tilted her head to work out a tension that had built the moment he entered the room. His eyes, ever distracted, flickered to one side of her neck. The room was becoming hot, and Joyce was becoming aware of how very brief her day-off outfit actually was. Her tank top was cut low, and her shorts were cut high, and she very clearly had his attention. She smirked, folded her arms over her chest, crossed her legs, and leaned forward slightly. His breath hitched.

 

“Well, I’m staff, so I suppose it doesn’t matter what I wear. Everyone will know that I work for you, so no one will be paying attention. I could flounce around in a French Maid’s uniform and no one would be the wiser.”

 

He coughed, color flooding  his cheeks as his gaze flew to the floor. “I think you’d make an impression that way.” He took a deep breath, and their eyes met once more. “I don’t want you to feel like wallpaper.”

 

“How would you like me to feel?”  _ What a loaded question, Joyce.  _

 

He held her gaze as the seconds ticked by without a response. She could hear her heart beating, could feel it in her pulse points, rapid as hummingbird wings. He stepped forward and she sat further back into the windowseat, a knee-jerk response that caused him to finally blink. He stepped back.

 

“I want you to feel like a valued member of this family. I want you to know how much I— how much Sarah looks up to you and admires you.” He reached into his right jeans pocket and pulled out a leather billfold. 

 

Joyce shook her head. “What are you doing?”

 

He handed a black credit card towards her. “It’s a bonus. Think of it as a bonus.”

 

“Are you buying me a dress?”

 

“Shoes, jewelry, whatever you like.”

 

Joyce stood and reached a tentative hand towards the offering. The hand dropped at her side and she frowned. “This isn’t something you do for an employee.”

 

“But you’re not—”

 

“Then what am I?”

 

“I told you; you’re family.”

 

“This is something you do for your mistress.”

 

Jim reeled back a few steps, and his features darkened. “I don’t have a mistress!”

 

The thunder in his voice made her flinch. She was well aware that he was probably in possession of a fiery temper. He had just never aimed it towards her. She decided now was as good a time as any to search for imperfections in the hardwood.

 

“I’m sorry. Joyce, I’m sorry.” He stepped over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. His hand was cold and caused a little shiver in the back of her neck. She lifted her eyes to his and saw a penitent softness. “Like I said, it’s a bonus. I can even dock your pay if you want — just take this and get yourself something nice.”

 

Joyce stepped back from his touch and held out a hand, palm up. “I don’t want you to come with.”

 

He raised his hands in front of his chest defensively. “That’s fine.”

 

“And if you yell at me like that again, I’ll leave without notice. I don’t care if you are one of the richest men in the state.”

  
Again, that astonished blink. He handed her the card. “I promise.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fumbling at the ball.

In the end, Joyce’s dress was a bargain. The driver Jim hired for the day ended up taking her into the city, and straight to her old neighborhood, where her friend Karen owned a dress shop with her husband, Ted.

 

“In all the years I've known you, you haven't come to me once, and now you waltz through my doors, expecting me to be your fairy godmother.” Karen’s arms were crossed over her chest, and she was tapping one foot on the floor, but her eyes were sparkling and her mouth was quirked at one corner in a teasing smirk.

 

Joyce rolled her eyes and presented Jim’s credit card with a flourish.

 

“I'll alert the mice and have Ted pick out a pumpkin.”

 

Karen helped Joyce pick out a floaty, electric-blue gown. It was unadorned with the increasingly flashy baubles of the more modern dresses, which suited Joyce just fine. The color was a bit more bold than her normal preferences and the bodice, with its shoulder baring neckline, showed a bit more skin than Joyce felt an on-duty nanny ought to show.

 

“Hush. It only hints that you have boobs, and barely that. Plus, it's hotter than fuck outside, in case you hadn't noticed. This dress is so light you'll feel naked. You'll drown in your own sweat in my other dresses.”

 

“I'll definitely feel exposed.” Joyce crossed her bare arms over the bodice of the dress and pressed her lips into a disapproving line. The dress was gorgeous, of course. Joyce knew that. She just wasn't sure if she was ready to shine quite so bright.

 

“Our Lady of Lourdes rears its ugly head,” Karen sighed, referring to the school they attended together as children. She pulled the pins from the waist of the dress and stuck them into the cushion at her wrist before rising. She gave Joyce and expectant look.

 

“Ring me up. I want it,” Joyce replied between clenched teeth. She hated when Karen implied that she was a prude. It had been the taller woman’s go-to insult ever since Joyce immediately started to pray at the sophomore lunch table when Karen excitedly whispered that she had done ‘it’.

“Good!” Karen exclaimed, fairly tripping to the register. “I can have it ready in a week. Make sure you have that fancy car takes you somewhere to get the matching Blahniks. The ones with the little jewel buckles.”

 

“Those are so--”

 

“Expensive? Yes, I know. This card doesn't have a limit and you are getting Friends and Family here, so what's the problem?”  Joyce groaned as she changed back into her street clothes.

 

“I'm ringing you up for some lingerie too. You can't impress your boss wearing Maidenform and panties that came in a pack of six.”

 

“But he won't get to see those, Karen.”

 

“Mmhm.”

 

Joyce gave Karen a goodbye hug, told her friend to give Ted her best and walked out of the store. She closed the door tight with a lift-and-push maneuver (there was a trick to it, and Karen didn't want the humidity to infiltrate and ruin her fabrics). She felt a presence at her back. “Summer always was your best season, Legs.”

 

Joyce groaned, and pressed her head against the door for a moment before turning. “Lonnie.”

 

Her ex-husband grinned at her, his face, once handsome and foxish, now seemed pointed and leering, like an elf on a bender. She couldn't see his eyes because he was wearing aviators, but she was certain they were bloodshot, given the stale dirt-and-pine smell emanating from the wife-beater/ bowling shirt combo that was his uniform. “Your apartment has been empty for a while. I came back weeks ago to visit you and the kid.”

 

Joyce ducked his outstretched arms and started walking towards the sleek black car that was idling by the curb. “The kid is in college and I don't live at the apartment anymore,” she called over her shoulder. The driver hopped out of the car and moved to throw the back door open for her.

 

“What the fuck is is?” Lonnie screamed. He didn't come any closer. Joyce’s driver was six and a half feet tall at the very least, and his broad features were threatening to say the very least.

 

Joyce offered him no reply as she settled against the soft leather seats.

 

“Is everything okay, Miss?” the driver inquired as they pulled away. Lonnie was still shouting her name, but his voice became faint when the radio was turned up.

 

“Yes. Can we go to Bergdorf’s, please?”

 

“Of course.”

 

By the time the car was heading out of the city, and Joyce was idly tracing the buckle of one exquisite shoe, the panic that had descended upon her at Lonnie's reappearance had abated. Still, nothing good ever happened when he showed his face, and from the way he tried to flirt and get cozy, she assumed his debt was the trouble once again. She'd have to call Jonathan and put him on his guard.

 

________

 

“You went crazy with it.”

 

“A bit.”

Jim and Marissa stood in his long-neglected ballroom as decorators scurried about with clipboards and boxes of finery. A small orchestra tuned up their instruments on the newly constructed stage. “You couldn't have gotten a DJ?”

 

Marissa wrinkled her nose. “Tacky.”

 

“ _I’m_ tacky. I don't do ballroom dance.”

 

“Miss Joyce look!” Jim and Marissa turned towards the entrance where Sarah and Joyce stood gaping at the unfolding scene.

 

“Daddy!” Sarah cried, running towards the two, dragging her nanny behind her.

 

Joyce looked instantly glum as her eyes fell on them. Jim felt that ever present stab of guilt at her discomfort.

 

“Hello!” Marissa greeted brightly. She squatted to be eye-level with Sarah. “Your daddy tells me he can't dance.”

 

“I can! I learned last school year, and so can Miss Joyce.”

 

Marissa rose and gave Joyce an inquisitive smile. “Oh?”

 

“Girls’ school. I only know how to lead in a waltz.”

 

“Girls’ school as well. I did a bit of both.”

 

There was no mistaking the mischief in Marissa’s voice. Or maybe Jim was hearing things. Either way, Marissa was definitely giving Joyce a _look_. Jim banished the image to the Bank of Naughty Thoughts. Something to ponder over in private, but not in a room full of decorators and his daughter.

 

“Show us!” Sarah chirped.

 

Marissa grinned down at the child. “A waltz?” she looked to Joyce. “What do you say, Miss Joyce?”

 

Jim noticed Joyce’s cheeks color a deep, deep red. “Oh! I-I don't-...”

 

“Please, please, please!” Sarah begged.

 

“Oh. Okay.” Joyce’s tone sounded genuinely defeated, and Jim tried to think of something, anything to spare her humiliation.

 

“Perfect!” Marissa ran up to the orchestra, and Jim heard her request ‘something long’. She ran back to the trio and pulled an uncomfortable looking Joyce to the middle of the floor.

 

The music started. Joyce led, and was definitely stiff. For the first several seconds she kept casting helpless looks to Jim and Sarah, as if expecting a rescue.

 

Then Marissa began whispering. Jim’s eyes widened in horror as his mind played out theories about what was being said. Maybe Marissa wasn't as fine with being ‘just friends’ as he thought, even though she was the one who suggested it. Maybe she was really and truly cruel, rather than kind but truthful. Maybe she enjoyed torturing those she thought were beneath her.

 

Joyce laughed, rich and genuine. Her entire bearing relaxed and suddenly they moved about the dance floor in a relaxed and graceful manner.

 

Jim wished he could read lips. Both women shot him a glance, looked back at each other and shared another laugh.  Scratch that wish.

 

When the music ended, Joyce and Marissa headed back to his side of the room, Joyce’s dour appearance long forgotten. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes were sparkling, and her loose, auburn hair was mussed from the exercise. He wanted to cup her delicate face, trace her high cheekbones with his fingers, and kiss her soft, smiling mouth.

 

“That was so cool!” Sarah exclaimed. She grabbed Marissa’s hand. “Show me!”

 

“Alright,” Marissa agreed. She waved at the orchestra and nodded. They struck up again, and she and Sarah were off.

 

“What did she say to you?” Jim asked as he and Joyce stood side-by-side watching the pair spin and giggle on the dance floor. Joyce shrugged. “Just things I maybe needed to hear.”

 

“Oh.”

 

His pulse quickened as he felt her fingers twine through his and squeeze. She untangled her grasp in an instant and his fingers curled and uncurled reflexively. He wanted to grab her hand once more, and revel in its small comfort.

 

“Do you want to dance?” he asked, nervously. He glanced over his shoulder at her. She shook her head.

 

“I'm tired.”

 

“Save one for me at the party tomorrow?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

She smirked up at him, holding his gaze as he moved so that he was standing in front of her. His right hand came up to cup her cheek, just as he had wanted to do moments earlier. He felt the smooth flesh tremble slightly against his palm as he stroked his forefinger against her cheekbone, his thumb brushing her plump lower lip. She sighed as he bent his head low. The music stopped and the spell was broken; he was close enough to feel her breath against his lips before she pulled away and cleared her throat.

 

“It's about time for swimming lessons, Sarah.” Joyce held out her hand towards the girl. She gave Jim one more smile, and waved at Marissa as she left the room.

 

“I like her,” Marissa remarked, catching her breath.

 

_________

 

Joyce thanked God that she hadn’t burned off any of Sarah’s fine blonde hair with the curling iron. Doing hair had never been her strong suite, but she knew that it would be expected of her, being a nanny. Usually the little girl ran around in pigtails or braids, which was easy enough. It had been a struggle, making her stick-straight hair hold a ringlet, but Joyce had managed. The girl looked sweet with her curls and her aquamarine organza with matching shoes, purse and headband. Joyce sprayed Sarah’s hair down with a generous misting of Aquanet, and rose to her feet.

 

“There. You look like a princess.”

 

Sarah hopped from her little stool and looked up at Joyce.

 

“And you look like a queen.”

 

Joyce blushed, and hair hand came up to smooth the flyaways she was certain were springing out from her low chignon. She felt beautiful in her gown and absurdly expensive shoes. In the end, she had opted for a strand of simple, freshwater pearls, with matching earrings. Nothing to distract from the elegance of Karen’s gown.

 

“We’re going to be late for dinner, Silly.” Joyce held out a black-gloved hand towards the girl. Sarah took it and they headed downstairs.

 

Joyce had never seen the Hopper dining room so full of people. She squeezed Sarah’s hand nervously as they moved about, trying to locate a familiar face. Jim was standing near the head of the table, flanked by a young man and a middle-aged man that she recognized as Powell and Callahan. All three men looked dapper in their black suits, though Jim seemed distinctly uncomfortable, shifting his weight, and itching the side of his neck. He had been running his fingers through his hair, probably tugging at it, Joyce could tell by how mussed it looked in the back. Sarah called out for him, and Jim turned with a ready smile for his daughter. The smile froze on his lips and his eyes widened when he noticed Joyce.

 

“Joy--Miss Joyce,” he stammered. She could see Powell and Callahan leering at her in her peripherals. Jim did not leer. Jim surveyed her with stunned awe, his mouth hanging open ever so slightly.

 

“And me, Daddy!” Sarah threw herself against her father’s side and he scooped her into his arms.

 

“And Sarah! Look how beautiful my daughter is, fellas.” He spun her about a few times and set her down. Powell and Callahan gave the girl disinterested approval before turning back to Joyce.

“So, you’re the nanny, huh?” Callahan was smirking and leaning forward. His eyes were not on Joyce’s face. Jim elbowed him in the chest with a distinct glare.

 

“Yes, I’m the nanny,” she replied, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

 

Jim was at her side in an instance, resting his left hand on her left elbow.

 

“Marissa has you sitting next to me. Let me show you where.” As the three of them walked away from the lecherous pair, Jim leaned over and whispered: “You are so beautiful, and I’m sorry my friends are assholes.” He squeezed her upper-arm reassuringly before pulling out the chair to the right of the head of the table. Joyce sat and shivered at the feel of Jim’s fingers brushing the space between her shoulder blades. He moved to help his daughter into the seat directly across from Joyce. Sarah had an oblivious look on her face, she was simply delighted to be counted amongst the grownups.

 

Marissa took the seat next to Joyce and nudged her with an elbow. Joyce looked over and smiled, Marissa winked. The woman looked gorgeous in crimson, with diamonds sparkling at her throat, ears and right wrist. Joyce had been pleased to find out that, while obscenely rich and spoiled, Marissa was quite pleasant, and also not interested in Jim at all. Not anymore at least.

 

 _I have bigger fish to fry,_ the woman had confided in her as they danced a day ago, launching into details about a conquest that worked on Wall Street. Joyce admired her frankness. It was refreshing, and reminded her of Karen before the woman had settled down with boring old Ted.

 

After dinner was finished, and the biggest cake Joyce had ever seen had been served, the guests were directed into the ballroom. The space had been decorated in dark-blues and icy-whites. Classy without looking like Senior Prom. The orchestra started up, and Jim led Joyce and Sarah to three seats near the wall.

 

“Aren’t you going to mingle?”

Jim shrugged at sat next to Joyce.

 

“I’m a little burnt out on that, to be honest. Just let me sit with my two favorite -- with the two of you for a moment.” He took her hand and squeezed, and Joyce tried very hard to not read too much into her. He had been downright lover-like the entire evening, despite the fact that he had not tried to kiss her again. She had turned _that_ moment over in her head thousands of times. Had it even been what she thought? If so, why had she ducked it?

 

_Because he signs your paychecks, and if it goes wrong, he probably won’t do that anymore._

 

But his fingers were intertwined with hers and he was giving her _that_ look, even though there were many, many people around to witness this potential breach of conduct, including Sarah, who was swinging her legs and watching the lights play off of her patent leather shoes, oblivious to the turmoil in her beloved nanny’s heart and mind.

 

A waltz struck up, and Jim dropped her hand.

 

“Let’s dance.”

 

Joyce blinked in astonishment.

 

“What about Sarah? The reason I’m here is so I can supervise.”

 

Jim looked over at his daughter and whistled. The girl looked up with a grin.

 

“Sarah, stay.”

 

“Okay, Daddy.”

Jim rose to his feet and offered a hand to Joyce, who rolled her eyes and took it.

“This is a really fast waltz. Russian. Breakneck, really,” she remarked as their hands became a confusing tangle as they decided who was taking the lead.

 

“Huh.”

 

“You said you don’t do ballroom.”

 

Jim shrugged and pushed forward, tripping over Joyce’s feet and causing her to lurch backwards. He moved quickly to right her.

 

“Stop trying to take the lead,” he accused with a playful smirk.

 

“This is too fast for you,” Joyce shot back.

 

In the end, they created a spectacle. The dance was maybe fifteen percent actual waltz moves; the other eighty-five was pure improvisation. In order to avoid treating his guests like elaborately decorated bumper cars, the pair ended up dancing around the perimeter, laughing until they both had stitches in their sides that made moving on an impossibility. They leaned against the bar for the remaining five minutes of the waltz, ordering drinks and sharing amused looks.

 

“Your pretty hair keeps popping out of that schoolmarm’s bun,” Jim teased, reaching out to smooth a bit of frizz at her crown. Joyce swatted at his hand.

 

“Let’s not talk about hair.” Joyce stood on her tiptoes to press down at his cowlick, using his shoulder as an anchor for her other hand. She gasped and stiffened when he brushed his lips against hers. Her soothing hand dropped to his other shoulder, and his hands slid down the small of her back as he bent down to deepen the kiss. She relaxed against him and parted her lips to receive his tongue as she swayed back, ever-so-slightly. She heard a boisterous whistle from behind Jim and it was over. He pulled away from her so suddenly that she nearly lost her footing.

 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, raking a hand through his thinning hair. He did not look happy or at peace with his decision. Joyce suddenly felt very cold. The room was freezing, even as her cheeks burned. Central air. Fucking rich people.

 

“Fine. That’s fine.” She sighed, squared her shoulders, and pushed past him. She had to get away. The room was too cold and her blood was roaring against her ear drums. Her name was faint as he called after her. She waved a hand to one side as though swatting a fly. So stupid to believe…

 

Exiting onto the lawn felt like stepping into a warm bath. The gooseflesh retreated, and she took deep breaths of the sticky July air. It was time for a cigarette. She had three left over from the last Jim crisis. She really thought she had been done with dating bullshit when she signed her divorce papers.

 

She was emerging from the garage’s side door when a strong hand grabbed her by the upper-arm and pulled her to one side. She collided with a chest that was solidly male.

 

“Jesus, Jim, why?” she cursed before realizing the chest she ran into was too thin and the person she was standing in front of was several inches too short to be Jim. “Lonnie.”

 

Her ex-husband grinned down at her, dressed in a cheap, loud suit better suited for a Vegas lounge than a New York elite shindig.

“Legs.” He stepped towards her, one hand raised and moving towards her cheek.

 

Joyce put two hands in front of her and shoved at his chest. He took a few steps back with an amused grin on his devilish features.“Goddamn it, how did you get here?”

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

 

“There are branches in your hair, and dirt on your monkey-suit, I can guess.”

 

She lit her cigarette and started walking towards the gardens. She had to lead him to a spot where there weren’t any witnesses. She briefly thought about murdering him and burying him under Diane Hopper’s prize tea roses.

 

“It took me a while to find you. I had to get a hold of Jonathan’s emergency contacts from his school. You look like a million bucks, Joycie. Who’re ya fucking to live this cushy, Babe?”

 

Joyce spun on her heels, her temper flaring like wild fire. She graced him with her most outraged face, hands squeezing into tight fists at her side. “I’m not fucking anybody, you moron! I work here.”

 

“As what?” His eyes raked over her body and rested on her heaving bosom as they paused near the shrub sculptures.

 

“None of your business. I need you to leave before someone notices you. Go crawl over that hedge. It will take you straight to the bike path near the woods. Get. Out.”

 

“I need money.”

 

Joyce let out a loud and frustrated groan, threw her hands in the air, and tipped her head back. “Of course you do. Of course, of course.”

 

“Seems like you’re in a good position to help.”

 

She looked him square in the eyes, lifted her chin slightly, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Well, you’re wrong. I’m currently paying for our son’s dream school, and he dreams big. I don’t have a cent to save you from some jumped-up mobster you tried to con at the tables. Fuck. Off.”

 

He hit her across the face with an open palm. It was nothing new. Their fights often became physical towards the end of their marriage. She had once cracked his skull with a dining-room chair. Still, the long period Lonnie-less peace had lulled her into a sense of security, into a belief that things didn’t have to come to physical blows, no matter how heated. Her cheek stung, and the blow forced her head to one side. Before she had time to process the humiliation, Lonnie was knocked over in a flash of powder-blue.

 

Jim Hopper was straddling her prone ex-husband, delivering blow after blow to both sides of the man’s face with powerful fists.

 

“Jim, stop!” she screamed, rushing over to his side. She caught one heavily muscled arm between two hands as it cocked back, and pulled. She thought he might still follow through with another punch, even with her grasping his arm, but he paused and looked up at her, his blue-eyes dark, electric, and wild. He was red-faced and panting.

 

“Stop,” she pleaded, frustrated tears springing to her eyes. She did not want to lose her job. “Get up, please.”

 

Jim rose to his feet slowly, shrugging off Joyce’s hands. Lonnie whimpered on the ground, spitting out blood and what appeared to be a tooth. Jim’s face was still murderous as his gaze fixed on the sad spectacle on the ground.

 

“She asked you to get out, so get. I’ll give you two minutes to pick your sorry ass off my property and fuck off to your flophouse in the city. If I catch you here again, the police _will_ get involved.”

 

Lonnie managed to pull himself to his feet and stumble out of the garden and out of Joyce’s sight. He did not look back, not even to throw Joyce one of his signature smug looks. She had never seen him so scared in all her life, not even in the times where she actually had called the cops.

 

“So that was your ex-husband.”

 

Joyce hung her head in shame and let out a shuddering sigh as the tears began to flow freely. She covered her face with her hands and wished she could sink into the earth and die.

 

She felt herself being pulled into a warm, solid embrace; large hands began to stroke her trembling back. He smelled like whiskey and blood.

 

“Shh...don’t cry, Sweetheart. He’s gone.”

 

“I c-can’t lose this-this j-job!” Joyce sobbed in earnest.She couldn’t breathe, her anxiety was pressing against her chest like a vice.

 

“No, no, no, no...who said you were fired?”

 

“I walked away from S-sarah and started a f-fight with my trashy ex-husband!”

 

Jim’s hands travelled up her back, to her shoulders and up the sides of her neck to rest at her jawline. He tilted her gaze upwards.

 

“Sarah is safe in bed. Flo took care of that. I know you didn’t invite that bastard into my home, and I knew you used to be in a bad marriage when I hired you. I did a background check ages ago, and I don’t care. Please stop crying, Joyce.” He stroked his thumbs over her cheeks, brushing away the tears that clung to them. “I’m really bad with tears, so if you could just stop, that would be great.”

 

Joyce took several breaths as she tried to calm her body. The trembling began to abate as he pulled her into another embrace, stroking her back and ruined updo. She felt a strange warmth low in her belly as he pressed a kiss against the top of her head, and tried not to think about how natural and right she felt, folded within his strong embrace.

 

“Let’s go to my office. I have better booze in my safe than at this sorry bar, and I think you’ve earned a stiff one.” He pulled away and must have noticed Joyce’s stricken expression. “Drink, I meant. A stiff drink.”

 

“Of course. And sure, if you think your party can spare you.”

 

“They’re too drunk to notice. Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

 

_________

 

They were both drunk. Very, very drunk. Somehow, Joyce ended up perched on the edge of his desk, both hands nursing a tumbler of whisky, legs crossed, hair completely unbound (“It hurts!” she had cried after the first drink, tearing at the pins that held it up). Jim was slouched back in his leather desk chair, his long legs resting on top of the desk, careful not to set his black shoes on the flimsy material of her spreading skirts. His suit coat hung carelessly over the back of his chair. He was admiring her heels.

 

“Those are fancy.” He pointed at them from his perch.

 

Joyce grinned, tilted her wavy, mussed-up head to one side, and gave a little kick at the air. The light caught the crystal buckles, making them sparkle becomingly. “Thank you.”

 

“Worth a pretty penny, I suppose.”

 

“You’ll find out soon, I guess.”

 

They were both experiencing a lull in the conversation. The first few drinks had been spent on Joyce detailing the rise and fall of her unfortunate marriage. He had hated Lonnie before, and her story had not improved his opinion. He blearily regarded the tiny goddess in blue, as she smiled, talked, and drank on his desk, and decided that Lonnie Byers was the biggest idiot in the whole US of A. Then he remembered his actions over the past few months, and amended the declaration. _He_ was the idiot. It was him.

 

“How are your hands?” she inquired with sincere curiosity. He put his feet down and scooted his chair so that he was flush against the desk. He then placed his hands, palms down, onto her lap for inspection. She set her drink to one side and traced his bandaged knuckles with gentle, exploring fingers. His hands, of their own volition, began to slowly stroke up and down her thighs through the light material of her gown, his fingers curling around the silky chiffon when he noticed that her eyes were half-closed, and her lips were parted ever so slightly as her breath hitched.

 

“Come here,” she whispered.

He stood and gasped as one long leg hooked around his back and pulled him towards her. He bent low and captured her lips with his. One hand came up to rest at her waist, the other to cup her cheek. She tasted like good whiskey and cheap cigarettes, a heady combination.

 

Their kisses deepened, and became heated as his greedy tongue explored her mouth. His hand moved from her waist to one breast as it rose and fell with her increasingly erratic breaths. She was so soft, so sweet. Her hands were stroking idly at his back in little circles that made him shiver.

 

His neck was beginning to hurt from accommodating her diminutive stature. He tore his mouth from hers with a groan, and peppered the side of her neck, and throat with kisses before cupping her ass and pulling her from the desk and onto his lap as he fell back into his chair.

 

She moaned against his mouth as she straddled him, and he knew she could feel his cock as it strained painfully against his trousers. He rocked his hips and hissed when she returned the gesture. Finally, finally.

 

His hands came up to the sides of her shoulders and he tugged down at the straps of her gown. She moaned a warning against his mouth and he opted instead to unzip the back down to her waist. He shoved the bodice down, revealing a lace-trimmed, strapless bra that matched the gown. He felt a twinge of amusement at the calculation, and grinned as his fingers traced the delicate floral pattern.

 

“Karen thought this might happen,” she sighed before nipping at the side of his neck.

 

“Who is Karen?” he sighed as her teeth closed over his earlobe.

“Shhhh…” He quivered at the sound and buried his face between her soft cleavage. She smelled of the roses in his garden, and faintly of sweat and almond soap. His hands went behind her back to work the clasps of her bra, and it fell to her with minimal fumbling. A feat, considering that fact that his hands were shaking and his head was swimming. He was intoxicated and she was intoxicating.

 

Her back arched and she whimpered when he drew one erect nipple between his teeth and gave suckle. He felt her fingers tangle through his hair, felt her hips continue their slow, torturous rocking. One hand came up to cup and tease her other breast, while his free hand travelled under her skirts and caressed one silken thigh. His fingers plucked at one strap of her garter belt, and his cock leapt at the thought her her in thigh-highs, and of bending her over the desk and plunging into her with her stockings and heels still intact.

 

His head lifted from her breasts and he kissed her so suddenly, that their teeth clattered before they continued on in a ravenous fashion. He tasted blood on his lips, but she gave no sign of pain. She kissed with her eyes squeezed shut, grasping fistfuls of his shirtfront like a lifeline, when his fingers found the silken barrier at her crotch. She was soaked through the fabric  and hot to the touch.

 

“Please,” she muttered against his mouth as he slipped two fingers beneath her panties, burying them into her slick folds. His vision blurred when he elicited a sharp gasp from her lips as his soaked fingers found her clitoris, drawing slow circles around the engorged bud.

 

He pulled his mouth away from hers, and looked into her eyes. She appeared sleepy with lust, her dark auburn hair obscuring one eye. Her gaze was glassy, unfocused, and her cheeks were touched with crimson. She blinked, and gave him a crooked smile as she rocked against his fingers.

 

Suddenly, it occurred to Jim that she was too drunk, he was too drunk, and what they were doing was bad. Bad, bad, bad.

 

_________

 

“I can’t.” The words struck Joyce like lightening, cutting through the euphoria of her near-orgasm. His clever fingers stilled and slid out from her quivering center. Reality came crashing down, and Joyce’s fuzzy brain registered that she was topless, and grinding against her boss’s impressive erection. She moved her hands from his shirt and placed them in front of her, almost defensively.

 

“Oh.” She pushed herself from his lap, and bent over to retrieve her bra from the ground. Her trembling fingers would never be able to attach the clasp into place, and she would be damned before she asked for assistance. She set it on the desk as she pulled the bodice of her gown back into place, managing to zip it halfway up her back. She let her gaze wander to the floor, to the sides of her, but never to his face.

 

“Joyce.”

  
She shook her head. “Goodnight, Mr. Hopper.” Stupid, stupid, stupid.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cold War.

He did not follow her as she fled into the corridor. She could still hear the faint hum of guests’ conversations floating upstairs. She would never be able to make it back to her garage apartment without raising eyebrows. Jim’s office was situated in the center of the guest wing, and Joyce supposed she would have to stay in one of the many bedrooms until she was certain the house was empty. She picked a room, four doors to the left of the office, and hurried over, hoping that she wouldn’t find any guests coupling beyond the double doors.

 

There was no one, thank goodness. She turned off the light, stepped out of her shoes, dropped her bra and dress to the floor, walked over to the four-poster bed and crawled over the covers. Her body was still electric with sexual energy even as her mind raced with anger and confusion. She hated him, hated that he made her feel this way. If he was indecisive, so be it. She just wished he would keep that indecision to himself and stop stepping forward and leaping back when it came to her. She had been hurt terribly by Lonnie, had closed herself off almost entirely because of Lonnie. Jim was the first, the very first person she had wanted in a long, long time, and it was so much easier when she thought he was nothing more than an impossible dream.

 

She could still feel the ghost of his fingers inside of her, his mouth and hand at her breasts. She gave a frustrated sigh and wished even more that she was in the privacy of her own home.

 

_Just take care of it, Joyce. Do you really think this room has seen worse than you rubbing one off to the thought of your boss?_

 

_________

 

Jim sat behind his desk, willing his head to stop spinning and his cock to stop aching. He could have kicked himself. What a stupid, stupid thing to do. What sort of idiocy prompted him to make a pass at his daughter’s nanny, the only person he entrusted with her care? This was a train wreck.

He exhaled heavily and placed his palms on top of the desk, and could still feel the warmth of her presence lingering on the chestnut surface. She had been upset, and he should have just been a comfort to her, rather than exploit her vulnerability by sharing drinks and feeling her up on his desk and then in his chair.

His fingers still burned from her touching her, she had been so wet and ready and goddamn it, he was never going to lose an erection lingering on _those_ thoughts.

He would return to his party, or what was left of it, and try to unwind with a little bit of camaraderie. If he found Joyce downstairs, he would apologize profusely and beg her not to leave him--Sarah. He would beg her not to leave Sarah.

After taking five minutes to allow the aching in his trousers to subside, Jim stumbled into the corridor, from the sounds downstairs, the party was still going strong, even without him. He was about to head towards the stairs, when a faint whimper floated down the hall. It was coming from a nearby room. Logic filtered into his brain when he realized that Joyce had fled his office, completely disheveled. She would not want to go back to the party, or even make the journey back to her apartment. She was taking refuge in a guest room.

He had made her cry. Made her cry when another man had done the same on the same night. He was a cad. A lech, just like Callahan, who went through help like Liz Taylor went through jewelry. Fuck.

That apology had to come now. His conscience smote when he thought of her wasting tears on his unworthy, alcohol-bloated carcass. He moved towards the room with purpose and knocked gently on the door, calling Joyce’s name. No response save for a sigh.

He pushed into the room and froze.

Joyce was sprawled on the bed, legs spread and naked, save for stocking and garters. Her eyes were closed, crimson lips parted, head thrown back, as one hand cupped and teased at a full breast. The other hand was lower, past her flat belly, fingers working furiously at her center. She was insensible to his presence, lost to her own ministrations.

All of the oxygen left the room, and he knew he it was time to go. This was not the place to be, even though it was his house, and she was a guest and oh god, it was the most vivid rendering of his most persistent fantasy. He wanted to cross the room, crawl into the bed, pin her wrists over her head and kiss her hot and slow before thrusting into her.

 _Get. Out. Now._ The sensible part of his brain whispered as her back arched and she cried out in a heady staccato that reverberated straight to his cock. He willed his body to obey, backing out of the room and closing the door as quietly as possible. He pressed his forehead against the door and took several, deep, shuddering breaths.

 _Very good. Now walk away. Go to sleep or jerk off, but do_ not _come back to this room._

He did as he was told. After two minutes of long, sure strokes with the image of her, naked and writhing branded into his brain, he finished with a hoarse cry. He rose and padded to his bathroom, cleaning himself with a quick shower before slipping back into his bed and falling into a troubled sleep, his hand reaching to the opposite side of the bed, as though trying to imagine what it would be like to have her slumbering at his side, her rich, auburn hair spread over the pillow.

_________

Joyce awoke at three a.m., head positively pounding. She pulled herself into a sitting position, and took in her surroundings. She was in a guest room rather than her own bed. Her clothing was strewn across the floor and she was stark naked. She raked a hand through her hair-spray stiff hair, dragging out a few rogue bobby-pins. She groaned when the events of the evening came flooding back to her. Bad, Joyce. Very, very, bad.

She dressed quickly and headed back to her apartment. The party had cleared by that time, and there was no one around to witness her Walk of Shame. After a quick shower, she brushed her teeth, donned a nightgown and settled into her own bed.

She entered the main house through the kitchen with caution a few hours later. Ji-James-... Mr. Hopper had never ever insisted on this house having a ‘servants entrance’, but Joyce knew that he liked to have his morning coffee in the grand foyer. It had the most natural light, and he liked greeting the man who hand delivered the newspaper. Jim Hopper, filthy rich everyman.

Sarah greeted her cheerfully when she walked into the girl’s bedroom to get her ready for the morning.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Joyce croaked, her mouth and throat painfully dry. She hoped the aspirin she had taken would kick in soon. Sarah’s exuberance was a little too much in the middle of a raging hangover.

The pair were about to head downstairs to go on an excursion to Chase Park when Jim burst through the doors of the child’s bedroom with a broad grin. Joyce felt her heart leap to her throat, and then shatter when he made no acknowledgement of her presence. Sarah gave a little squeal and threw herself into her father’s arms.

“I thought you had to work in the city this morning!” the child remarked once she caught her breath after being tickled, tossed into the air and caught.

“Day off. I can take those because I’m the boss. What are you up to today?”

Sarah squirmed to be put down, and when Jim obeyed, she ran to Joyce’s side.“Miss Joyce is taking me to the park to look at bugs and flowers.” Sarah grinned up at Joyce who, despite the tumult her mind was going through, smiled back and took the child’s hand.

Jim’s smile did not reach his tired eyes. “Could you ask Miss Joyce if I could come along? Maybe we could go for a little trip to Central Park instead? Maybe FAO Schwarz too?”

Sarah gasped and frantically shook Joyce’s hand. “Miss Joyce, could we?”

“I don’t see why not...but maybe you’d both like to go alone.”

The little girl shook her blonde head and frowned. “No! I want you to go too.” She gave a beseeching look to her father. “Tell her we want her to come, Daddy!”

Brown eyes met blue as Joyce found herself being studied by her employer. His brow creased in a frown that could have been disapproving or concerned, Joyce was not sure which .“Maybe Miss Joyce needs a day off, sweetheart,” Jim reasoned.

Sarah gave a little whine that was cut off by Jim with a warning look. Joyce knelt by Sarah and kissed her forehead. The girl threw her arms around Joyce’s neck in a tight embrace that made the older woman’s heart ache.

“Besides, what are we going to have to talk about if I’m there with you? You love to tell me stories. Why don’t you knock on my door when you get back, and I’ll make hot chocolate and you can tell me all the fun things you did today.”

Sarah, satisfied with the compromise, took her father’s hand and they left Joyce alone to analyze what had just happened. Jim had not seemed angry or regretful or ready to give Joyce the boot. In fact, he seemed eager to pretend nothing had happened at all.

Joyce was astonished at how angry this made her. Two could play that game.

________

“What are you doing here, Mom?” Jonathan asked with genuine curiosity.

Joyce stood at the threshold of his dorm room door and shrugged. “I got a surprise day off, and I missed you. I was hoping you’d let me buy you lunch.” He looked thinner than usual and hoped he was spending his allowance on food and not film.

“Long drive to take on a whim and a chance that I’d be around.” He stepped aside so she could walk into his room. It was tidy, which was astonishing.

“Roommate is particular about dirt,” Jonathan mumbled. She always had a terrible poker face. Every thought and emotion tended to play out on her face in real time. Her father (and Lonnie) used to tell her it made her look crazy.

“Sounds like we’d get along.”

“Enroll in school and find out.”

Joyce groaned and gave her son a tight hug. He was taller than her, which was never not jarring.

“Stop,” she commanded.

“Never. Not until you listen to reason,” he retorted, pressing a kiss on the top of her head. “Anyway, let’s go get pancakes.”

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“And I’ve been awake for a full half hour. I’m starving.”

They were sipping coffee in the corner booth of a nearby cafe when Jonathan dropped a bomb.

“Lonnie was here last night. Looked like someone beat the piss outta him, Mom.” His eyes were narrow and his mouth was grim as Joyce angrily plunked her cup onto the formica.

“God damn it! Here I thought you had just been partying all night.”

Jonathan shook his head.

“I cleaned him up after letting him scream outside my window for a few minutes. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know him when he started using my full name.”

Joyce buried her face in her hands, the ache in her head started to come back. She could feel the vein in her forehead begin to pulsate.

“I am so sorry. I suppose he told you everything.”

“His version.”

“I suppose that didn’t include the part where he hit me.”

Jonathan swore violently, jolting Joyce out of her slouch. Judging from her son’s red face, wild eyes and crossed arms, Lonnie’s story had contained glaring omissions.

“Jonathan, it’s okay.”

Her son shook his head, unable to meet her eyes.

“I told him years ago that I’d kill him if he ever did that again.”

Joyce reached out her hand to squeeze one tense shoulder.

“Please don’t, baby. You have a future. I think Mr. Hopper took care of him last night.”

“Lonnie says you two are fucking,” Jonathan spat out in disgust.

Joyce glared and removed her hand so she could slap it against the top of the table.

“That’s nobody’s business!”

Several pairs of eyes were on their little booth. Jonathan looked over his shoulder, shrugged at the onlookers and threw them a middle finger. The witnesses went back to their own affairs in an instant.

“I guess. Anway, Lonnie needs money. Alot.”

Joyce raised an eyebrow, and rested her cheek against her hand.

“And I’m guessing he tried to get some out of you.”

“Apparently going to NYU means I know a shit ton of rich kids that I can leech off of ‘for just a sec until I can pay it back, Jonny’.” Jonathan threw up finger quotes as he affected his father’s gravelly voice.

“Hmmm.”

“I think he’s in big trouble this time.”

Joyce nodded and sipped her coffee. They paused their conversation to allow the server time to deliver their food. Joyce smirked at her son’s tall stack of pancakes, knowing he would eat them all in one sitting.

“I think you’re right,” Joyce remarked before biting into her half-sandwich. “He was downright flirty last night. He still thinks he can charm the gold from my purse.”

“Be careful, Mom. If he knows where you live, he could come back and make trouble.”

Joyce shrugged. “I don’t think there’s much of a chance of that. I thought Jim--I thought Mr. Hopper was going to kill him. He probably thought so too.”

“Well, tell _Jim_ that I appreciate him defending you. Though I suppose if he’d have waited, he would’ve seen that you can do the job just fine. How many stitches was that, that one Christmas?”

“Which Christmas?”

 

________

Jim was absolutely frantic. He and Sarah returned from the city, the afternoon low in the sky, only to find Joyce was not waiting for the pair in the dining-room. She was always punctual for dinner, usually it was him that lagged behind, holding up the meal.

“She left shortly after you did. Took her own car without a word,” Flo explained as she set plates of fried chicken in front of Sarah and Jim.

“You are absolutely sure she didn’t say where she was going?” he demanded. Thoughts of her threat to leave without notice came back to haunt him. He hadn’t raised his voice at her, but he hadn’t exactly behaved like a model employer.

“No. She didn’t. I’ll save a plate for her, though.”

Sarah frowned at her chicken, her bright eyes shining with worried tears.

“Why isn’t she here?” the child whined.

Jim suddenly lost his appetite. He was completely thrown by how helpless he felt in that moment. Joyce’s little car didn’t have many trips left in it, she had said so the first time she parked it in the garage. Most trips she took were either in one of his many vehicles or a rental with a driver. Why would she take it unless she wasn’t coming back? Jesus Christ, he knew he was garbage, but he did not think for one minute that Joyce would be the type to take it out on a child.

Sarah sniffled at his side, and he felt lower than low.

“Sweet Pea, what’s the matter?”

Jim and Sarah’s heads turned towards the entrance to the dining room where Joyce stood. He wanted to jump to his feet, rush to her, and kiss her senseless. He wanted to scream at her for worrying him. But mostly he wanted to apologize.

Joyce took a seat at Sarah’s side and kissed the top of her head.

“Are you okay? How was Central Park?”

 _Where were you?_ Jim wanted to ask. _Please don’t leave again._ He tried to catch her eye, tried to signal his remorse at hurting her, to give her something that would suffice until they were alone again. _And then what happens?_ He watched as Sarah wiped away her tears and explained her day to Joyce, frowning as the woman refused to meet his gaze.

Flo reappeared with another plate, and Joyce looked past his shoulder to smile at the older woman. Her eyes didn’t so much as flicker in the direction of his face. It was as if he was a ghost. Well, that wouldn’t do.

“Where were you?” he finally asked, schooling his tone to sound less desperate and more authoritative.

Joyce looked down at her dish, and began to push the skins from her chicken with a fork.

“I wasn’t aware that I had to check-in and out on my days off,” she intoned, not looking up from her plate.

Jim’s face was hot from annoyance. “You don’t,” he began evenly. “Except that you never miss dinner even when you’re not on the clock. Sarah was concerned.”

Joyce eyes flew to Sarah and her features softened when she saw the distress in his daughter’s small face; she reached out a hand to stroke the child’s hair. “I’m sorry, Sweetie. I had lunch with my son today.”

“At NYU? We could have taken you.” Jim was becoming mildly snappish. He knew why she was made, knew that she had every right, but it didn’t change the fact that her stubbornness and indifference were getting stuck in his craw. She didn’t respond, and he began to count the seconds until he could retire to his study and drink away the stresses of the day. Though, he supposed, given what had happened the night before, it would probably be best to stay sober.

Joyce excused herself from the table after barely touching her food, hugged Sarah, and left the room without a backwards glance. Jim sat, his anger at war with his guilt. He was certain he was sulking, barely able to give Sarah anything more than monosyllabic responses to myriad of questions, his eyes fixed on Joyce’s empty chair.

She wasn’t going to leave, which was a blessing, but he had no idea how long he could continue living with stony silences and barely repressed resentment. It was on him to fix it, but he didn’t know how.

Jim wanted her, but had no idea how to proceed, especially now that he was certain he had blown his chances. He had no clue what that arrangement would look like. Would she continue working for him? Continue living above the garage? There was no mistaking the disgust in her face when she had informed him that she was not his mistress. Where would she go? How would they explain it to Sarah?

Fuck staying sober. This was a Three Handle Problem.

_________

It was going on week two of the Hopper House Cold War, and Joyce was not sure how long she could continue in the current fashion. At first, The Ghost Game (Lonnie’s name for it) had been almost fun, in a horribly vindictive way. Joyce’s ability to look everywhere and acknowledge everyone but the person she was angry with had been a skill, finely honed throughout the years.

Joyce had first played it with her parents, when she felt they had done something particularly unforgivable. Of course, those games were short. She could only ignore her father for so long before a strap was applied to her behind. Hard to stay imperious during a ‘whooping’. Later, she played it with Lonnie for the sole purpose of getting a rise out of him. When she blew up, it only seemed to amuse him. He would laugh in her face as she raged. Completely denying his existence brought color to his cheeks and an almost incoherent indignation. Of course, he usually broke the spell with violence, which she returned in kind.

Jim just looked sad, which had been fine at first, when Joyce had been preoccupied with her own pain. _Does that make you feel good, Joyce Mae?_ Her mother would’ve asked, were she alive. The answer would have been ‘yes’. Joyce felt strongly that anyone didn’t admit watching the person who hurt them get hurt in kind wasn’t cathartic at least on some level, was a goddamn liar. But anger fades, and Joyce’s faded relatively quickly in the face of Jim’s defeated and disheveled appearance. He was leaving for work earlier and earlier, and missing dinners more often, which was not making Sarah happy at all. If Sarah was unhappy, everyone was unhappy. The child could be downright tyrannical, when all was said and done.

“Sarah, come out. You’re going to be late for day camp.”  The girl had locked herself in her bathroom, and the driver had been waiting outside for a good twenty minutes.

“I don’t care about stupid camp! All we do is learn how to sing stupid baby songs and make jewelry out of macaroni. If you want a macaroni necklace, go make it yourself!” Joyce jumped back from the door when she felt a tremendous thud from the other side. Sarah had kicked it. Hard. A low whine from the other side told Joyce that it had not felt good.

“Sarah, open the door! Are you okay?”

The sobs grew louder and Joyce felt panic well up inside of her chest. The door to Sarah’s room was flung open and heavy footsteps fell as Jim rushed to Joyce’s side. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, and his face was stricken. He had slept in his clothes, and reeked faintly of Schlitz. Joyce wrinkled her nose at him, despite her concerns for his daughter.

“What’s wrong with Sarah?” he demanded hoarsely.

“She doesn’t want to go to camp and she showed me how much by kicking the door. I think she hurt herself, but she’s locked herself in.”

Jim pounded on the door. “Honey, it’s Daddy.”

The wailing stopped abruptly. “Go away!”

Jim appeared completely bowled over by the shrill command. “Are you kidding me? Open the door and come out. I paid good money for this camp.”

“Well, you got hosed then. I hate it!”

Jim shot Joyce a look and mouthed his daughter’s phraseology with a befuddled expression. Joyce shrugged.“Any particular reason?” he inquired in an even tone.

There was a few beats of contemplative silence before she answered with: “No. But I’m mad at you!”

“Okay, that’s a start. Why are you mad at me, Sweetheart?”

“Because you and Miss Joyce aren’t talking, and I never see you. If you’re fighting because of Marissa, you should just stop seeing her and marry Joyce.”

Joyce and Jim shared looked of crimson mortification. Joyce felt her jaw drop as she struggled to conjure words. Jim cleared his throat. “Honey, Marissa isn’t my girlfriend.”

“Then why does Miss Joyce hate you?”

“I don’t hate your daddy, Sarah.”

The door opened. Sarah hobbled out and eyed them both with suspicion.

“Sweetie, you’re hurt.” Joyce fell to her knees and held out her arms. Sarah shook her head, and continued to study her father and her nanny.

“You don’t hate him?”

“No.”

“So you’ll go back to talking to him again?”

Joyce shot Jim a glare, hoping the question ‘Did you put her up to this?’ was clear in her narrowed eyes and parted lips. He shook his head with innocent, horrified eyes. Joyce turned back to Sarah.“Everything will go back to normal, I promise.”

The child’s face brightened up considerably. “Okay, I’m ready for camp.”

Joyce sighed in relief, even as she wasn’t quite sure how to honor her promise to the girl. She looked back to Jim with softer eyes, and he gave her a weak, but hopeful, smile in response. After they were both assured that Sarah’s foot was not broken, Joyce went with her to camp and Jim went off to work.

He knocked on her door later that night. He had missed dinner that night, much to Sarah’s annoyance, and a little bit of Joyce’s too. She had mentally prepared herself to be normal around him once again, and when he called to announce that he’d be arriving after Sarah’s bedtime, she felt the same twinge and ache of jealousy and disappointment that she had felt the night he had taken Marissa home with him.

Joyce answered the door in her bathrobe, clutching a baseball bat. The bat wasn’t for him. Ten minutes earlier, she had received a call from Lonnie.

_Joyce, I am begging you._

_Was I not clear enough when you showed up here last?_

_I really stepped in it, this time._

_I’ve heard this before._

_No, these are bad, bad guys, Joyce. Please. Just give me something. Ask that boss of yours, do whatever you can to get it from him, just get it._

_What is_ it?

The sum had left her reeling, and she was used to hearing four, even five figures come tumbling out of his mouth. After recovering from her shock, she laughed, which had not gone over well. The threats were mostly incoherent, but the volume in which they were issued nearly tore through Joyce’s eardrums. She hung up after a few beats of screaming, and hurried under her bed for a weapon. It was going to be a long night.

The sight of Jim, tall, rumpled, and practically filling up the space of her doorframe, caused her to momentarily forget why she was holding the bat.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stepping forward

“Joyce, what the fuck?”

The bat clattered to the floor, and she struggled to form an explanation. 

“Are you okay?” He demanded as she stumbled over words.

“I thought I heard something. I guess that something was you.”

“Can I come in?”

Joyce stepped to one side to let him in. He stepped forward into her living room and sank heavily into her recliner. “I don’t like being treated this way,” he stated, flatly.

“Rough day at work?” She immediately went to the kitchenette, filled a kettle, and set it to boil. She knew the conversation that was coming, and it gave her a sudden urge to make some strong tea. 

“I meant by you!” he thundered in her direction. Joyce’s jaw dropped and she crossed her arms under her chest.

“I thought I was treating you like my employer, Mr. Hopper.”

“Please call me ‘Jim’.” his voice was soft and contrite.

“I’m pretty sure we decided that sort of thing was inappropriate.”

She turned her back to him in order to stand on her tiptoes to reach into the cupboard for sugar. Before her fingers could graze the tin, she felt a large hand gently close over her wrist; a solid, sandalwood and leather scented wall of warmth at her back. She closed her eyes and sighed when she felt Jim’s breath at her ear. “Jim…”

“We were both so drunk that night and I felt like I was taking advantage of you. I was going to talk to you about it the next day but the way you looked at me in Sarah’s room, the way you’ve been avoiding me, I didn’t think--”

Joyce turned and looked up at him with astonished eyes. “The way  _ I _ looked at you?! I felt invisible in that room!”

“I didn’t want Sarah to suspect anything. She likes you so much, and if she had any idea that there was something wrong I…” he trailed off as his eyes fixed on her lower lip. Joyce snaked out her tongue to dampen it. She didn’t mean to be provocative, her lips were dry as a general rule, but the gesture caused Jim to take a sharp breath before he brought his lips crashing down on hers.

Joyce grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, anchoring his mouth to hers as she parted her lips to return his kiss with ferocity. His hands slid over her cheeks, stroking her cheekbones as he nibbled and sucked at her hungry mouth. She had missed him, missed this ravenous need, and she  _ had _ needed him. It occurred to her that he was ridiculously tall. She wondered if someone could throw out their back from kissing. 

As though reading her mind, his hands fell to her waist, and he lifted her. She wrapped her arms about his neck for balance, brushing kisses against his neck as he set her onto the counter. 

“Is this actually happening?” Joyce sighed, as Jim’s lips found  _ the _ spot behind her ear. One large hand caressed a bare thigh, the other cupped and teased a stiff nipple through the silky fabric of her robe with nimble fingers. She was awash in tingling desire, a pleasant heat that started low in her belly and spread to her scalp, and she didn't want it to ever end. 

“Tell me to stop, and I'll stop,” he whispered hoarsely, before licking into her mouth. She groaned and met the caresses of his tongue with her own, throwing her arms over his shoulders. She wanted to be closer and closer, and they were both stupidly overdressed.

She felt his hands on the belt at her waist, tugging and fumbling with the knot she had created before grabbing the bat. “Let me help,” she whispered, pushing at his chest. 

He stepped away, and her smaller fingers were able to liberate the belt from her waist. She shrugged out of the robe, letting it pool onto the counter. His eyes widened at her nightgown, taking a shuddering breath as they raked over her body. 

Joyce felt a smile creep over her kiss-bruised lips. She was not a flashy person, but she had always liked feeling pretty when she went to bed, whether or not she was going alone or with a man. The nightgown she wore was a brief, babydoll cut of deep violet lace with matching boyshorts. The straps were thin,ribbon-like, and the bodice was cut low -- designed to boost what assets she had. Jim’s gaze was focused on the little ribbon between her breasts.

“Jesus. I was expecting a cat shirt and sweatpants,” he confessed, stepping forward to free her thick, wavy hair from its ponytail. She snorted and slapped his chest. “Gee, tha-”

His mouth was on hers again, and with renewed vigor. She shivered as his fingers stroked the sides of her neck, and then buried themselves in her hair, pulling her closer. Tongues met and dueled, teeth nipped, and Joyce knew it was never going to be enough. They had to progress or she was going to combust. 

“Easy, easy,” he cooed against her ear, stilling her when she tried to scoot closer to the edge of the counter, reach over, and fumble at the buttons of his trousers. He brought his hands under her nightgown, resting on her abdomen before drifting to the waistband of her shorts. She braced her hands against the edge of the counter and lifted her hips so he could pull them down, which he did with a small flourish, before kneeling down between her legs. 

_ Thank Jesus, the saints, and all the angels,  _ Joyce’s mind blasphemed as his hands came to her waist to pull her closer, his breath hot against her upper-thighs and center. She stopped thinking full-stop as her legs were thrown over his shoulders and his tongue was sampling the evidence of her arousal in slow, flat strokes. 

His tongue circled and teased at her clit as her fingers threaded through his dark-blond hair, rocking gently against his face. She whimpered and sighed as his tongue fluttered, teased, and brought her closer and closer to the edge. 

She shuddered and broke apart, repeating his name in a breathless mantra, her fingers trembling as they tugged at his hair. He rose to face her, his handsome features distinctly smug. She tasted herself on his lips as he kissed her slow and sweet, with a drowsy passion. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long, long time,” he confessed, stepping back, pulling  his wallet from his side pocket. Joyce frowned in confusion until he pulled out a condom.

“Confident,” she teased, body still trembling with aftershocks. 

He shed his trousers and boxers with swiftness, and Joyce tried very hard not to gape at his thick cock as it jutted out proudly. He was… intimidatingly large. She felt dizzy at the prospect. 

“It’s okay if you've changed your mind,” he assured her, his eyes searching her astonished face. Joyce snapped out of it and shook her head. “No, I'm just...wow.”

He chuckled before stepping between her legs, sliding his hands beneath her buttocks to lift her, and position her. They both gasped when he pushed in, the sensation of being  _ that  _ full after years of nothing momentarily winded Joyce. She squirmed against him with a whimper.

“Tell me when to move,” he begged, pressing kisses against her forehead as she adjusted to his girth.

“Now,” she hummed, urging him on with a subtle movement of her hips against his. 

He kept a slow, steady rhythm as Joyce clung to him. They held each other's gaze as he moved in and out, as though neither could believe what was happening. Joyce bit her lower lip, and his eyes, drowsy with lust, fixed on the spot. He brought a hand up to her lips, brushing his forefinger against the swollen flesh. He groaned as she sucked the finger into her mouth, biting down on it gently.  His pace quickened suddenly and Joyce eyes squeezed shut as she lost herself to the pressure that was building inside her once more. She buried her face against the side of his neck, drawing a sharp gasp when she bit down.

She was teetering towards the precipice, preparing to take wing, see fireworks, feel all the metaphors she had only read about in paperbacks. It had been too far between to compare him to Lonnie, but she couldn't  imagine ever feeling this…

“I'm not going to last, Joyce. God, you're so fucking amazing.”

His thrusts became frantic, the rhythm lost, which was fine because Joyce was grasping fistfuls of his shirt, and crashing down loudly, her head thrown back with a senseless repetition of the Lord's name on her lips. His completion was close on the heels of hers, his guttural cry smothered by her bruising kisses. 

His lips ghosted over her cheeks and lips as she caught their breath. Joyce trembled against him, coming down from her cloud of lust. She could feel his heart hammering against her as he held her close. They became so quiet that she could hear clock above her stove tick away the seconds. After what seemed like an eternity, he eased her from the cabinet, sliding from her body with a short gasp. 

“Stay,” she requested, breaking the silence.

“Are you sure?”

“Mm. I’ll drive you home in the morning. We’re going in the same direction anyway.”

He chuckled, low and delicious.“Deal.”

__________

` “What do you mean she’s gone?”

“Miss Joyce, I-I don’t know what to say. The museum was so packed, but we stayed together. She was here one moment and th-then, and then…”

Joyce felt as though she had fallen through a thin patch of ice, while simultaneously getting punched in the stomach. Susie Turlington, the assistant director of Sarah’s day camp (really a child herself. Tiny and squeaky-voice. Too timid to live.) gasped with sobs as she struggled to explain how exactly she and three other counselors had lost track of Sarah during a trip to the Museum of Natural History. 

It was true that they were short-staffed for the trip; Joyce had signed up as chaperone, and then had to cancel last minute when she woke with one of her splitting migraines. The kind that meant a day in a darkened room, a cold, wet cloth, and little else. She had recovered in time to make the trip to pick Sarah up from camp headquarters, only to find that the group had not returned. The secretary did not have an answer until the phone rang. Joyce had watched the plump woman turn red, and then chalky white, her bespectacled eyes flickering back and forth between Joyce and a nearby window. 

Joyce drove straight to the museum, hoping that it would be resolved before she arrived, praying that she didn’t have to call Jim. 

He showed up two minutes after Joyce, and he was not as gentle with his questioning as she had been. “Where are the fucking cops?” he thundered at the now hysterical Susie. 

“Jim, she said security and the police are combing the place right now.” Joyce stood in front of him, smoothing her hands over his chest in an effort to keep him from breaking apart in a ball of rage. His big, solid body was thrumming with energy, his face fixed in a mask of stony outrage. 

Sarah was nowhere to be found. Reports were filed, interviews were held. Jim and Joyce were sent home (“In cases like these, with Mr. Hopper’s wealth, you might expect to receive a phone call”), a detective close behind them. She sat in the passenger seat, sobbing helplessly against her hand as he stared out into the distance and drive, expressionless and silent.

“I should have been there for her,” was the only thing Joyce managed to say on the drive home. He shot her a look of such undisguised venom that she didn’t dare speak again.

Joyce sat in the foyer with Jim until she nodded off in the chair near the end table the phone rested on. She had not wanted to fall asleep. She wanted to be there for him, be alert and awake until they were both certain of the girl’s safety.

She woke in her own bed to the sound of the telephone ringing, Jim nowhere in sight. It had been a week since their first encounter, and though no real conversation about their current status had taken place, Joyce had spent every night in his bed in the main house since (“You’re bed is lumpy”). He wanted to be alone. 

Joyce picked up the phone on the fourth ring.

“Mom?” Jonathan’s voice sounded thin and afraid. Alarm bells went off immediately.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Lonnie wanted me to call to tell you that it’s not just her you have to worry about.”

Joyce’s legs buckled, and she sank to the kitchen floor, crouching against the cabinets. 

“Jonathan?”

“Mom, we’re both here. Me and the kid.”

“Where?”

A pause.

“Hopper isn’t with you is he?”

Joyce shook her head, hot tears slipping down her cheeks.

“No. Tell me what to do so I can come and get you.”

______________

Joyce had watched enough TV to feel sickeningly apprehensive about walking into an abandoned factory with a suitcase stuffed with cash. The sun had just begun to crawl over the horizon; the cavernous building almost completely dark save for a smattering of dust-filled sunbeams filtering through the filthy windows. 

Joyce trudged up two spiral staircases, the railing and steps thick with grime, holding her breath as her senses were overwhelmed with mouldering, dead smells. Her instructions were to find the blue door on the second floor. The paint was peeling, but it was definitely blue. On the door, in peeling red paint were the words:  _ Let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love.  _ Joyce had read it somewhere, and were she not about to bargain for the life of her son and her lover’s child, she might have taken the time to ruminate on the message.

She knocked four times. The door flew open.

“Joycie, Joyce, Joyce,” Lonnie looked and smelled like hell. His hair was a matted mess, eyes bloodshot, and his bear was scraggly. She had always hated him in a beard. He just didn’t have the right sort of face for it. 

She held up the suitcase and looked around the room. It had clearly once belonged to a supervisor. It had a view, rotting bookshelves, a filing cabinet, but not Jonathan or Sarah. Joyce lowered the suitcase and grasped it until her knuckles turned white. Lonnie made a grab for it and she pulled away, nearly turning her body a full 180 degrees. 

“Well, I’m not going to keep them here. You stupid or something?”

“I need to see them. Take me to them. Now.”

“Pay me first. You know, I could just take that from you, Shortstack.”

Thinking quickly, Joyce made a break for the wide window. It was already open to cut through the stifling heat, and there was no screen separating Joyce from the outside. She pulled herself onto the high sill and thrust the hand that clutched the briefcase out of the window. 

“Awww, what the fuck?” Lonnie threw his hands in the air and started to pace about the room. 

“Get them. I’ll wait.”

He lunged towards her, but stopped abruptly when she began to loosen her grip on the suitcase until it dangled from two fingers. A strong breeze would have been able to knock it from her grasp. “You fucking bitch.”

“Go.”

Her bluff worked. She didn’t know how, but it worked. Lonnie fled the room, swearing loudly and calling her every single name in the book. A door opened nearby and Joyce wondered if that meant he was keeping them close or if it was the...no, they were trained to be more stealthy than that. They had to be more stealthy than that.

Lonnie’s outraged cry filled the air, and Joyce gave a start that nearly caused her to lose her grasp on the briefcase. Not thinking, she jumped from her perch to the floor and set the briefcase down.

“Lonnie?” she cried nervously.

He burst through the door, face red, nostrils flaring. He was holding something black in his hand, pointing it at her. Joyce’s heart began to beat feverishly, and the air left her lungs when she realized it was a gun. She reeled back, real fear exploding through her body.

“Where are they? Where the fuck are they?”

Gone. They had to be gone. There was no faking that kind of rage. 

“I don’t kn-know... Lonnie, p-put the gun down.”

“You’re trying to fucking trick me!” Gun still pointed, he made a dash for the suitcase. Joyce was too paralyzed to stop him. He picked it up and dashed it against the wall, causing the case to burst open in an explosion of green paper. Lonnie watched as it fluttered to the ground. “Fucking fake,” he swore, examining a few bills.

Joyce made a break for the door, but he caught her short of the threshold. His arms wrapped around her midsection. She squirmed and managed to turn to face him, one hand pushing at his chest while the other tried to wrest the gun from his grasp. She screamed for help as her hand closed around the handle. Where the hell were they? She managed to get an elbow to his nose before the gun went off. 

Joyce had watched enough TV to know that this would be the point where the villain and hero would look at each other in shock before the villain inevitably fell to the floor, the unfortunate victim of their own hubris. The excruciating burning slightly to the left of her right hip told her that this would not be one of those stories. Every nerve-ending in her body screamed; she had never felt anything quite like it.

“So this is what being shot-” her knees buckled before she could finish.


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions

“Joyce!”

Lonnie caught her in his arms as she fell, holding her almost tenderly as he whimpered in distress - he dropped her when the cops arrived. Joyce hit the ground with an anguished cry, and shakily rolled onto her back, the ringing in her ears increasing in volume. At first, she was worried that she had emptied her bladder when the gun went off; a quick glance downwards told her that was not the case. She had never seen so much blood in her life. Could someone really lose that much blood? 

She recalled the time Jonathan had taken her a silent film, the way the edges of the screen were framed in fuzzy darkness, and how that darkness increased and engulfed the screen when the scenes began to close. The faces that floated above her kept changing every time the screen in her vision went blurry-black and then back into focus. She heard her name repeatedly, but it was as though her head were underwater, the voices distorted and soft compared to the ringing sound and the deafening beat of her heart. She screamed when she felt a sudden and painful pressure near her injured hip, and looked down to see someone in uniform pressing their hands against it. Nausea hit as the black edges began to close around her vision again.

“You cannot come in here, Mr. Hopper!” She jerked awake at the sound and managed to turn her head as Jim fell to her side, pulling her head into his lap. He looked like he was crying, but everything was blurred like a fresh watercolor. “No, no, no. Sweetheart, look at me. Stay with me, please.” His hands were stroking her hair, and his plea of ‘stay with me’ became fainter and fainter and she slipped back into unconsciousness.

________________

Joyce was in surgery when Jim wished for the 500th time that he hadn’t agreed to the plan. She had been so eager go through with it, and the detective had assured them all that with the right preparation, it would go off without a hitch. Those morons should have moved when the scumbag started raging about his hostages going missing, and now her blood was literally on his hands. And his shirt.

_ That _ had not been part of the plan. Apparently, Jonathan had managed to escape with Sarah two hours before Joyce arrived. They had tried to reach someone, anyone who would be able to get the word out, but they had both been unfamiliar with the area, and had ended up wandering until reaching a police station. Too little too late. A part of Jim wanted to strangle the boy for being so careless, but the other, more rational part of him knew that because of Jonathan Byers, his girl was safe.

But Joyce…

He had been sitting in a police van, screaming for action the very second he heard Lonnie start screaming at Joyce through the wire she wore in her shirt. He could hear her breathing become panicked, the shallow breaths and the little whimper she probably thought only she could hear. He heard, and it took three officers to pull him back into his seat. When the scuffle broke out, the order was for the officers to move in, but Jim had to stay. When the shot rang out, there no one could stop him from running into the building towards her. 

Diane’s death had been bloodless, almost clinical in its quiet, painless efficiency. It had looked like she was falling asleep. Joyce had been suffering when he found her; violence pooling around her as she gasped, cried, and slipped in and out of shock. If she died it wouldn’t be peaceful. He didn’t want to be able to say he knew a murdered person. Loved a murdered person.

He had held her head in his lap, fully expecting that it would be the last time he would get to look upon her face, comforting her as an officer tried to keep her from bleeding out from the wound in her hip. She had recognized him before she began to babble senselessly (What the hell was a Caligari?), and slipped into unconsciousness. The moments between her slipping away and the paramedic finding a pulse had stretched out for centuries in his tortured mind.

So now they waited. Her boy sat on one side of him, Sarah on the other. The little girl was fast asleep against his shoulder; Jonathan stared at the floor, hands clasped tightly in his lap as he slouched forward. Jim did not know what to say to comfort the boy, not when he felt like he was splintering and shattering inside. Jonathan was a kid, though. One with a dad in jail and a mom on an operating table because of said dad. 

Jim clapped a hand over the boy’s shoulder, giving him a violent start.

“Easy-hey, you’re mother’s tough, okay?” Jim’s voice was only a little tight. Inner turmoil staying strictly internal.

“I know,” Jonathan breathed as tears formed in his eyes. “I should have stayed put. I-I didn’t know.” He buried his face in his hands. “And she wouldn’t stop crying. I just wanted to get her out of there…”

Jim wiped the moisture away from his own eyes as he was overcome with emotion. 

“I appreciate it, kid. You’ll never know how much, but you can’t beat yourself up like this. She’d hate it.”

“I’ll kill Lonnie if he ever gets out of jail.”

“I’ll help you.”

A doctor stepped into the waiting room. There was a small smile on her face. 

____________

Joyce awoke to the sounds of machine whirring and beeping. She felt overwhelmingly groggy, and not at all impressed with the quality of her hospital bed. Her eyes focused on one corner of the room, and she smile to see Jim’s bulky form filling a tiny armchair. He was snoring lightly and covered up with a leather jacket. He needed to shave, and comb his hair. Joyce couldn’t smell him, but she assumed he needed a shower as well.

“Hop.” She smiled as his eyes fluttered open and met hers. Her throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton, her voice rusted out and tinny.

“Hey,” he greeted with drowsy enthusiasm. He was out of his seat and to her side in an instant, taking her hand in his.

“Jim, you’re a mess,” she teased. He leaned over and brushed his lips against hers. “Lady, you don’t know the half of it.” He sat back and stroked her cold hand.

“Do I still have a job?” she inquired weakly. She was so, so tired. She wondered how much drugs they had pumped her with.

Jim chuckled hoarsely, his eyes shining strangely. “As long as you’ll have us.” His voice was thin in quality, but thick with emotion as he studied her with undisguised fondness.

“That long, eh?” 

“Though I was thinking about moving you into the big house.”

Joyce narrowed her eyes, thinking back to the conversation that occurred the day before Sarah went missing. The one about increasing her salary so she could afford an apartment in town while they navigated their new arrangement. It had seemed so practical at the time, especially considering Joyce’s uncertainty regarding Jim’s feelings for her. The distance seemed safe.

“Unless you’re still keen on the apartment idea. I know you liked the idea of putting space between us but-...” he trailed off and stared at the painting hanging on the wall over Joyce’s shoulder. She touched the side of his face to bring his focus back to her.

“But?” 

He took her outstretched hand to his lips and kissed the back of it, his eyes were shining with anxiety, his breath slightly shallow. Joyce suddenly understood. “Sounds like I have a long recovery.”

“That’s what they say.”

She moved the hand back to stroke his cheek, his bushy beard tickled her palm. “Lets consider my downtime a trial period. If you don’t hate me by the time I get back on my own two, maybe I’ll stay in the big house?”

Relief flooded his features, and he smiled against her palm, making her feel warm inside. She yawned as sleepiness overtook her, and he kissed her palm before her hand dropped to her side. He pushed a few errant strands of hair from her face and whispered, “Maybe you’ll stay.”

**The End**


End file.
